


Flowers

by StormysHealthyCopingMechanisms



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2019-06-23 11:01:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 74,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15604857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormysHealthyCopingMechanisms/pseuds/StormysHealthyCopingMechanisms
Summary: Multiverse, a.k.a. an AU of an AU.For waves_and_salt. cos you're cute.





	1. Chapter 1

It was his hands.

Every morning, Ronan swore he’d stop. Sneaking glances. Listening in. Getting needlessly distracted.

But every day, by last period, he was thinking about Adam Parrish.

It’s the hands that always get him. He’d be focusing on biochem or calculus, and Parrish would suddenly decide to turn his pen in slow circles around his fingers, absentmindedly trace the edge of his desk, or almost, but not quite, chew his thumbnail.

_Farewell calculus notes… you will not be remembered._

That’s how Ronan ended up thinking about Parrish every night when he was trying to eat, trying to sleep, trying to _please God think about anything else please_.

His hands were more pink than usual. They looked raw, uncomfortable. Ronan couldn’t stop staring at them.

He was lucky, once again, that he sat at the back of the class.

It was Friday, thank Christ. Two Parrish-free days to try and repress the incapacitating constriction in his chest.

And work, this evening. Tomorrow night. Sunday night, too, if he could get his homework done.

The bell startled him. Class was finished already? He must have zoned out with the staring. The rest of the class started to rush for the door, enthralled at the prospect of newfound, if temporary, freedom. Ronan waited for them to go, waited for Parrish to go. He hated leaving before him, hated being seen by him, as if the bare truth of it would be obvious from the way he walked or acted or avoided looking.

Parrish stood up, folding his book together with both hands, and manoeuvring it into his bag with a distracted flick of his wrist.

Someone passed in front of Ronan, interrupting his view, and he roused himself with difficulty.

He only stood up and shoved his own books away when Parrish had disappeared through the doorway, taking a moment to scrub his face with one hand and push his hair out of his eyes.

 

 

 

Gansey had rowing practice, and Ronan had already agreed to wait for him, so by the time they were both sliding into the Pig it was already dusk.

Declan used to drive him home, after school. It felt like yesterday he and Matthew were squabbling over who got to ride shotgun in the Volvo. But Declan was gone, already. He’d left a year early. He’d been that desperate to get away from them. Ronan almost hated him for it.

Almost.

The truth was it was easier without him. There weren’t the same passive aggressive glares and sullen refusals to speak when their father talked about the job, about Ronan, about legacies.

Declan had despised the whole subject, probably always, but Ronan had only noticed when he’d turned fifteen. Declan had been angry ever since Niall had taken Ronan on his first real night out.

Ronan still missed the cranky git. Declan had never stopped with the beleaguered big brother bullshit, even when he was pissed, and he’d always helped with Ronan’s PoliSci assignments.

Gansey was wet, in a very noticeable way. Ronan didn’t feel the need to hide his staring.

‘We didn’t crash.’ Gansey countered automatically. ‘This time.’

‘Why are you wet?’

Gansey said, with as much poise as he could muster; ‘We tipped over.’

‘You’re a state-ranked team.’ Ronan observed. ‘How can balance still be such a problem for you?’

‘It’s not a lack of balance.’ Gansey corrected pointedly. ‘It’s an excess of _excitement_.’

Ronan raised his eyebrows, and Gansey ignored him in favour of pushing his wet hair off his forehead.

There was a little nudge at the back of Ronan’s thoughts, a not-too-subtle jab. _Gansey_.

Gansey, the golden boy of Aglionby. Rowing team captain, debating team captain, honorary chair of three clubs he couldn’t be captain of because he was already overburdened with responsibility. He’d be valedictorian, he’d be school mascot if anyone had any sense, and he was _Ronan’s_.

Best friend, that was.

Ronan’s best, most attractive, friend.

And yeah, most of the time Ronan would cheerfully stare at him during their shared classes and their shared long drives and their shared late night existential crises. Gansey was fucking _art_.

He just wasn’t Parrish.

Gansey was sculpted perfection. He was the Mona Lisa, the Venus de Milo, Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

Parrish was more like the Grand Canyon. The Aurora Borealis. Victoria Falls.

‘Ronan.’ Gansey interrupted. ‘Ronan. You’re wool-gathering again.’

‘Sorry.’

He really needed to get to work.

 

 

Friday night was the Lynch family household date night.

Not in a conventional sense.

Never in a conventional sense.

But Declan had moved away, Matthew got to go sleep over at someone’s house or invite friends over to play video games or watch movies, and Niall would take Aurora out to a five-star restaurant and a moonlit cruise, or a hot-air ballooning experience, or a rave… Ronan didn’t really pay much attention.

And Ronan got to punch people, which was always cause for celebration.

He’d inherited his father’s genetic superpower, etc, etc. The classic story.

Niall had been ahead of his time, but Ronan was part of the new generation of vigilantes. Crime management in the big cities of America was no longer the purview of the police force. Niall had trained him, trained all three of them, since they were children, but Ronan was the only one strong enough to receive Niall’s responsibilities. Since his fifteenth birthday, he’d been picking up the weekend evenings, and it was glorious.

He’d designed the webshooters and synthesised the formula for the webs. He’d reduced the potential risks of the job tenfold from his father’s methods. And he was good at it, ridiculously good at it. Better than he was at biochemistry, and he kicked biochemistry _ass_.

Three nights a week, the city belonged to him.

 

 

He foiled an attempted armoured car robbery.

He snared a car thief (small time, but still a dickhead).

He watched three episodes of Adventure Time through someone’s apartment window.

The morning came quickly. It was a quiet night, and Ronan wasn’t the only vigilante haunting the streets.

He had probably a few hours until dawn - the sun was rising early, bringing diabolical heat - and watching cartoons and dozing on the living room sofa seemed like a solid plan for his morning.

Someone, on the street below, started howling drunkenly at the sky, almost obscuring the subtle whine of a distant security alarm.

It was most likely nothing, but Ronan had time.

He jogged for the edge of his rooftop.

It was a department store alarm - a crazy place to try and rob any day of the week. There was a fur coat on one of the mannequins in the window, and someone was dangling a gilded handbag.

This was the good part of town, after all, but they really did _invite_ this kind of criminal element.

Ronan examined the undamaged front door, and moved across to the roof of the building so he could examine the back door, also undamaged. There was a skylight, and a roof entrance, but neither appeared to be tampered with, and both bore metal plates threatening extensive security measures, tripwires, lasers, passcode panels, cameras.

The building had multiple floors, dozens of windows. But the time Ronan had checked them all, the culprit would be gone, if they’d ever existed at all.

Faulty alarms and misfires occupied most of Ronan’s time on nights like this.

But there was something… yes, definitely something moving in the building below him. Possibly a security guard, possibly even a police officer, so rarely sighted in the wild.

But then, possibly, it was something more interesting.

Ronan broke the roof entrance door and took the stairs. It wasn’t as though the alarm wasn’t already going off. And it wasn’t as though the camera would catch much of the black suit and black mask. Besides, he was a _vigilante_. This was for _justice_.

The lights were on inside, on the third floor. They were typically repugnant department store lights, casting a misleading yellow haze over every overpriced item of designer clothing on the racks. The clothing alone, stolen, could be worth thousands… but it was a bitch to carry. He knew he’d find his criminal, if there was one, digging about in the jewellery section.

There was a mannequin nearby wearing a gauzy white evening dress that reminded Ronan of a tablecloth. The mannequin was also flaunting a hip at some questionable angle, and he felt reasonably confident that any such gesture actually made while wearing the dress would immediately rip it in two.

There were some nice jeans, though. Dark and very soft.

The jewellery section arose around him, glass cabinets, gentle beige neck and wrist shapes for harbouring gaudy colourless money pits.

Most of them were naked, devoid of necklace or bracelet. The little soft rolls for rings were abandoned too, but there wasn’t a single shard of glass out of place.

There wasn’t anyone around, either… except…

He swivelled round fast enough to catch a glimpse of the fleeting shadow crossing the polished floor behind him, and fired both webshooters instinctively in the predicted trajectory.

There was a soft _oooof_ , the sweet sound of success, and then a thud.

Then silence, yet again, broken only but the faintly-too-fast throb of a heartbeat. There wasn’t any of the usual accompanying noise; the sound of a struggle, the sound of heavy breathing, the sound even of clothing rustling. Just that low rapid pulse.

Ronan crept forward, holding himself out of a direct line of sight, until a sudden clear view of the thief caught him by surprise.

He couldn’t really believe what he was looking at. He even stepped fully around one of the clothing racks, just to ogle.

His webs (the messy, netted kind) were tangled around something so unexpectedly _cosplay_ he didn’t know where to look… except he did, and it was directly at it.

It was dark - the thief was dark, that was - like Ronan himself. The pale fibres pinning them to one of the mannequin stands starkly contrasted with their black clothing - was that a costume? - and heaven forbid… there was a mask. Not like Ronan’s, though. This mask was was solid, not fabric, and it didn’t conceal the eyes or the mouth like Ronan’s did. It curved at the edges, rounder than a human face would be, and tipped at the top with two triangular points.

Ronan tried not to overreact. Disguises were hideously common. But there was something incredibly unsettling about looking at a figure with the face of a black cat, right down to the ears, and the slitted yellow eyes, and what looked unnervingly like fangs creeping over the bottom lip.

He cleared his throat, and circled, slowly. The eyes followed him, but the rest of the figure - a woman? he couldn’t tell for the mask and the webs - didn’t move.

‘That’s… Wow.’ He paused, cleared his throat again. ‘That’s real cute.’

A moment passed, and another. He could just leave the idiot here, for the police. This really wasn’t something he should be sticking around to deal with, but still… it was mesmerising.

He saw their mouth open, and the sharp pointed teeth, bright white against pink.

‘I’d say likewise, but I wouldn’t mean it.’

It was a man - or an incredibly effective modulator. His voice was lowered to little more than a hum.

The meaning of the response caught up with Ronan a couple seconds late.

‘Is this- Are you doing a bit?’ He blinked, and reassembled his brain. ‘Wait, is this a fetish thing? Oh god, did you escape from a BDSM club?’

The intruder tipped his head, either offended or amused. ‘Why? Are you looking for one?’

Ronan, remorsefully, recalled that his own suit wasn’t exactly on the family end of tightness.

‘Hey.’ He reprimanded sharply. ‘Don’t make me call animal control.’

The cat-figure laughed, and part of Ronan’s stomach tried to crawl into his throat. This was so… wrong. There was a criminal in a cat outfit in front of him, and he’d just brought up BDSM? _Christ_.

‘I don’t blame you for wanting help.’

‘ _Help_.’ Ronan snapped, heat rising to the back of his neck. ‘You’re literally stuck to the floor. All I need is a pet carrier.’

‘Ah. Well. If you’re sure.’

Ronan had a fleeting vision of flying limbs before he ducked, the mannequin bouncing off his left shoulder and narrowly missing his head. His webs lay severed on the floor, as though the cat had sprung fully formed from a cocoon.

’Son of a -’

The cat was hightailing it, sprinting between racks and leaping over obstacles. Ronan fired another web after him and pursued.

He was wearing a coat, tight to the body but padded with bulging pockets, and similarly treasure-laden cargo pants. It was impressive he was able to move at all, let alone without jangling like a crazy set of keys.

Ronan was faster than him, easily, but the second he was almost within lunging distance his target swiftly changed direction and vanished down a hall promising “changing rooms”.

It would have to be a dead end… So Ronan had him cornered.

He swung down the corridor.

The first few doors hung open, so he shoved at one in the middle, but the second he’d turned his head something collided with his back and threw him off his feet.

It wasn’t just unexpected… the little shit was _strong_.

He rolled, catching the scruff of the jacket and pulling viciously enough to hold the figure in place, but he was immediately accosted with knife-sharp teeth inches from his face and terrifying, round amber eyes.

His opponent was smiling, or some eerie semblance of it, so close Ronan could see his eyelashes, and then Ronan threw him into the wall.

He heard the mirror break, and nearly cursed. So much for just leaving him for the police.

The cat had landed, unperturbed, in a crouch, and gently shook off the broken shards of glass.

‘Seven years bad luck.’ He murmured, and Ronan kicked him in the hip.

He rolled again, caught the cat’s shoulder, and tried to pin him, but he was slippery. One hand - jesus fuck, were those _claws???_ \- found the back of Ronan’s neck, and the other dug into his ribs, and Ronan hissed, distracted enough to lose the upper hand.

He landed on his back, the cat on top of him - _oh shit_ \- one clawed hand crushing his wrist into the carpet and the other dragging at his hair. He took the opportunity to grab the thief’s throat and shoved upwards, but there was barely any traction and the damn cat just blinked at him.

It was the hair-pulling that freaked him out, and being stared out by the golden bright eyes and the creepy narrow pupils and the fact that he wasn’t outmatching this thing as easily as he outmatched every other fucking person he’d ever met.

Ronan released the cat’s throat just to swing at the side of his head, and found his free wrist snatched in midair and forced, slowly, to the ground. Those were crazy good reflexes. Those were _inhumanly_ good reflexes.

It was strong enough to hold him down, leaning on him as calmly as if it were effortless, and showing teeth. _Not the mask, god, don’t touch the fucking mask._

The thief considered it, slowly, appraising the silver eyes and neck of the mask like he couldn’t make his mind up.

‘You’re not human.’ He observed softly, and it came out so like a purr that Ronan caught his breath.

‘Neither are you.’ He growled, jerking his wrist hard enough to hear something pop. It lifted a few inches of the ground before it was pushed back down.

There was an answering smile. ‘What was your first clue?’

Both of them looked up at the same time. Somewhere in the building the alarm had been shut off, which meant private security, and probably cops.

The cat looked at Ronan’s mask, smiled once more, and sprang back with baffling ease, disappearing out the dressing room door before Ronan could even lift his head.


	2. Chapter 2

Adam was eleven blocks away before he risked taking the mask off. There was a bruise rising on his throat already, but it would probably heal before Monday.

So _that_ was the Widower.

Adam had never seen him up close before. Very, very close.

He was younger than Adam had expected. More lean and more green.

Adam stuffed the mask into a pocket filled with jewels, untucked his hood from the back of his shirt and swung onto a fire escape. The webs were cool, definitely. Powerful, too, but not enough to resist diamond blades. He slid down the side of the fire escape, and dropped to the ground in a crouch.

The Widower was a vigilante. While technically a crime-stopper, he had no truck with the police, which meant it was hardly likely he’d be providing a witness sketch. He’d presumably be clearing off as fast as Adam was, if he wasn’t too badly dazed.

He was interesting, definitely. Not human… at least not completely. And the tech was impressive. The complete mask would have to have a display built into it, not to mention the web-shooters.

And what were the webs made from? They held like polyfibres. Strong, but still manufactured fabric.

He took the back alleys home, dodging bright lights and crowds. There was still homework to do.

 

 

 

The jewels went straight to his fence the next day. She moved stolen goods faster than Adam could solve equations, and that was a skill he took particular pride in.

Blue was sitting cross-legged on the end of her bed when Adam came through the window.

‘Adam.’ She spread her hands, heavily weighed with rings, across a haphazardly quilted blanket. ‘What have you got for me?’

He tipped out the contents of his messenger bag, sending a few bangles rolling across the floor and a ring ricocheting into a bookcase.

‘Pretty.’ She remarked, resting her chin in one hand. ‘And a little excessive.’

‘Department store.’ Adam explained, pulling himself onto the top of a dresser.

‘Ooh.’ She hooked a long necklace on a pinky finger. ‘Moving up in the world.’

‘Lucrative.’

‘Dangerous.’ She added.

He nodded, slowly, examining his hands. The swelling on his neck had subsided slightly, but his hands were still raw from the rash. It wouldn’t help, but he pressed his tongue against each anyway, a cool, momentary relief.

‘Everything okay?’ She’d raised her eyes from the stash, and was watching him suspiciously. ‘You look a little rough around the edges.’

‘I encountered the Widower.’ He explained carefully. ‘In the store.’

Blue stopped, fully, and stared at him. ‘The _Widower_?’

Adam didn’t answer, choosing to lick his hands again instead.

‘And you _survived_?’

‘Gee, thanks.’ He replied.

‘No. I mean, yeah. You’re just… y’know. More of a hands-off type of cat.’

The cat thing had been Blue’s suggestion, originally. She said it added an extra layer to his disguise, the element of disorientation, and that it suited him, but it hadn’t take too long for Adam to realise that she was suggesting a persona.

The problematic part was that it worked.

It worked too well, if the previous night was any evidence.

The Widower had pinned him down - so quickly Adam hadn’t seen it coming - and Adam hadn’t reacted as smartly as he should have. He’d stopped to talk, instead of cutting through the webs and getting out. He’d gone into the change rooms instead of going straight out a window.

Adam wasn’t reckless. He was never reckless.

But with the mask on he was something close.

He’d never been caught before. He’d never been _seen_ before. He didn’t have an identity. He didn’t even have a _name_.

Oh, some people knew. Blue. Blue’s mom. Calla. Persephone. The women from Wyvern that Adam had grown up with. But they knew Adam, not the guy in the mask.

The department store had been a step up, and a vigilante had caught him out right away, but a haul like this could feed him for months, not to mention the cut he could give to the Wyvern women. And, at the end of the day, the Widower hadn’t stopped him. Not just because he was fast, but because he was _strong_. Strong enough to fight back, if it became necessary.

But was that Adam?

He waited for Blue’s attention to move back to the pile of jewellery and let his head drop against the wall. He should have been more careful. He needed to be more careful.

 

 

 

Ronan didn’t own to the fight with the thief immediately.

He planned to, but it didn’t go down like he’d imagined. Getting home, and finding the house already dark and quiet, the desire to disturb either of his parents had faded fast.

And Niall had been sitting at the kitchen table in the morning, already beaming that devil’s grin like he never had a care in the world, and Ronan had just balked.

‘How’d it go?’

‘Yeah. Good.’

And that was the end of it.

The only reason he mentioned it at all was because Aurora was concerned.

So, admittedly, to her eyes it probably wasn’t ideal that Niall had trained their children (or even spawned their children, for that matter) to fight forces of evil and all that. It probably wasn’t her favourite day when Niall had decided to send Ronan into the night on his own to find criminals. It perhaps subtracted from the romance initially to know that her date nights were permitted by her teenage son’s rough street-fighting tendencies.

But she adjusted.

That was kind of the only way to live with Niall Lynch.

She looked in on him in his bedroom, as always. Patted his hair affectionately before resting her chin on his head.

He was scratching at the edge of a sheet of calculus homework, watching the ink drip into the page and ebb outwards. Spiderwebbing through the divets of the paper.

’Have you got much homework?’ She asked gently.

This was how it went. The homework question, to make sure he wasn’t under pressure.

Then the “Are you hungry?” and “You feel a little warm.” Just to check he didn’t want to cry off sick.

“What is Gansey up to this weekend?” always came next, to make sure he wasn’t missing out.

And finally; ’How was your night?’ Warmly. Carefully designed to avoid stepping on a single one of his toes.

‘It was good.’ He nodded to his desk, and heard the lie in his own voice. ‘Yeah. It was good.’

She straightened, and combed fingers through his curls, smoothing out tufts. ‘Anything exciting? Anything I’d like to hear?’ She laughed, conscious of the awkwardness, and it made Ronan smile too.

That thief had overpowered him. That made him inhuman, but not just inhuman. Stronger than Ronan inhuman.

It wasn’t as though Ronan hadn’t come across the odd human giant who could lift half their body weight and throw a grown man across a room, but he’d always outmatched them one-to-one using superior speed and reflexes. This guy, this _thing_ , had Ronan dead to rights in his grasp, and he was incontrovertibly smaller than Ronan was.

Maybe not by much, but that didn’t really matter.

‘I saw someone.’ Ronan said quietly, letting his mother’s tried and true soothing technique liquefy his resolve. ‘Someone like me.’

‘Nobody’s like you.’ Aurora said, pulling the top of his ear gently. ‘You saw another vigilante?’

She’d hushed her tone, clearly understanding that this wasn’t something Ronan was as eager to share with Niall as with her.

He shook his head firmly. ‘Someone not human.’

Her hands stilled, abandoning knots and tangles, and then she knelt, abruptly, by his chair, lifting big blue eyes to his face.

‘Why would you ever think you’re not human?’

He shifted to make eye contact, even though he felt uncomfortable, now, with the question and the implication and the constant, humming, unspoken knowledge that he wasn’t, wasn’t, wasn’t…

He was whatever Niall was.

Which wasn’t an answer, particularly, and it never had been.

Aurora drew a deep breath, her gaze melting from serious to sympathetic. ‘Nobody is like you.’ She repeated. ‘But perhaps they were something else.’

Something else. Something what? Part feline?

The memory of the eyes was still seared into Ronan’s brain.

How would he catch it, then? Catch him?

How would he even know where to look?

 

 

 

He didn’t have an answer, so he didn’t do anything.

Nothing different, anyway.

He still did the work, both school and vigilante. He still hit the streets and fought the villains, and gradually the urgency, the panic… it eroded. Not completely, but enough to let him breathe, and focus.

School days offered their own distractions.

Gansey, for one. Rowing practice four nights a week, and debating on the fifth, and Ronan always showed up for at least three of those events. He wasn’t involved, thankfully, but he didn’t mind watching. There was also talk of obscure ancient texts over lunch, classmates’ sordid stories to mock, and it was a point of honour to send a daily remark in the direction of the World Hist teacher that was perfectly formed to be obviously intended as rude but never in any punishable way.

And there was Parrish.

His hands were still strange. It made him fret at them more, which gave Ronan headaches.

Three weeks had passed and Ronan had filed away his interest in the thief, when the bastard reappeared.

Unexpectedly, completely unexpectedly, lifting a set of Swarovski vases from some swank-as-shit double-storey penthouse uptown.

Ronan had only been on the balcony because he liked the damn view, and he’d heard something inside the dark and supposedly empty apartment.

It couldn’t have been that simple, but it was.

There was the same weirdo in the same outfit, ears, cargos, teeth and all of it, helping himself to a set of crystal picture frames (frankly, the gaudiness _was_ worth an eye-roll, but it wouldn’t stop Ronan from intervening).

He broke the sliding door trying to get it and knew he’d triggered a silent alarm, as well as alerting the thief to his presence.

Sensibly, the cat put the vases down before he turned to face Ronan.

‘It’s you again.’ He noted, as though pleasantly surprised, and Ronan scowled.

‘If you’re going to keep acting out like this,’ he warned, ‘I’m getting you microchipped.’

The cat lunged for the stairs, hurdling the dining table in one smooth motion, and Ronan tried to web him, but he’d learned fast. He veered into the sofa and sprung over it, planting both feet to gather momentum to leap for the glass wall bordering the top of the stairway.

_Come on._

Ronan wanted to aim high - every instinct told him to - but he fired low instead, across the wall, so the cat thief cleared the glass but still hit the web, and Ronan followed up with the strongest weaponry he had.

A couple of web grenades and a few tension lines and the thief was bundled up pretty securely, suspended in the staircase like a massive fly Ronan had cocooned.

He still approached cautiously, noting with glee a few anxious attempts to squirm loose.

‘I get it.’ He said, circling the glass. ‘Cat. Burglar. It’s funny. Really.’

There was a muffled noise of exaggerated gratitude.

There was a foot sticking out one side of the cocoon, at an odd angle, like the idiot had really been planning on diving face first down a flight of stairs. It had a boot, lace up, and surprisingly cheap looking. Ronan poked it with impulsive curiosity.

He had to get a little lower on the steps to see the mask, although what now disturbingly seemed like real fangs had made short work of the webs across the face.

Eyes, flat and liquid gold, stared Ronan down unfalteringly.

‘This is embarrassing.’ The thief said patiently. ‘But I think I’ve forgotten our safety word.’

Ronan scrunched up his nose involuntarily.

He was so close. Within arm’s reach. Ronan could take the mask right off.

He didn’t.

The cat hadn’t unmasked him in the department store. He’d had the opportunity, and he hadn’t taken it.

Maybe that didn’t mean anything.

But it kind of did, to Ronan. Because he wasn’t the only one at stake.

‘Seriously.’ He said instead. ‘What’s with the get-up, Mittens? Isn’t this a bit T.S. Eliot?’

‘Says the walking spider-motif.’

‘Says the walking _cartoon_.’

The burglar clicked his tongue. Ronan watched colour flash between the sharp points of his teeth. ‘Be a honey and let me down.’

‘Be a good kitty and stay put for the fuzz.’

‘You don’t want to stay and play?’ His voice dropped into a husky whisper, and Ronan inadvertently took a step back, slipping down a stair.

What the hell was he thinking? String the guy up, string him up and get out, before the psychopath got any further into his head.

‘Listen, furface-’ He was blushing. Why in the name of God was he blushing? Thank fuck for the mask. ‘- you think this shit will still be funny in prison?’

The thief’s eyes widened fractionally, and his pupils dilated just enough to make Ronan wary. ‘If you’re already tired of cat and mouse, we can play something else.’

Oh lord, Ronan was going to _ruin_ his father’s reputation.

The elevator pinged. Building security had arrived.

The cat hadn’t freed himself, but Ronan suspected that he could, somehow.

He had to leave, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t stay, but he needed to.

God. _God_.

What would his father have done?

Not weird, borderline flirtatious banter. Definitely _not_ that. Not inappropriate distraction about ears and eyes and teeth and claws.

Niall would have knocked the guy out and left him there. For the police. For the law.

The front door opened. The cat wriggled again, tilting his head.

‘Play.’ Ronan repeated under his breath.

He hauled himself up the wall and over the glass barrier.

Downstairs, someone rounded the corner of the foyer, probably glimpsing the bottom of the stairway. Ronan stretched his shoulders, cursing himself, and picked up the sofa.

He stumbled, the barest amount, but it was more quality than quantity, and he could lift it.

He dropped it on the glass barrier and tipped it over, letting it slide past the cocoon and hit the bottom of the stairs with a satisfying thud, blocking the second floor from view and entry.

The cocoon wobbled, and its occupant said faintly. ‘Charming.’

Ronan had a knife for the webs, and he was sadistic enough to slice through the tension first and let the cocoon fall onto the steps. He’d have to get rid of it all - maybe weight it and throw it in the river - so nobody knew he was ever here.

Obviously gaining some leverage, the cat sliced and pried himself free, and followed Ronan’s route up and over the wall, so they were staring at the vertical sofa side-by-side.

He was close. Ridiculously close. Ronan could feel the back of his neck prickling. Christ, he was nervous.

He’d just aided a criminal.

Which, admittedly, wasn’t that unusual given that he technically was a criminal, but… still.

The criminal was a stranger. And a thief. Who dressed like a cat and fought like something inhuman.

And Ronan didn’t hate him, particularly. Or even dislike him. Or even want to throw him in jail.

‘That was interesting.’ The cat remarked slowly. If Ronan hadn’t been wearing his own mask, he probably would have felt the thief’s breath on his cheek. ‘I suppose… I… owe you one.’

He didn’t seem enthused at the notion. Ronan felt a touch sick.

‘You’ll have to owe me two.’ He responded lowly, and when the cat glanced at him curiously, he indicated the balcony. ‘Now there’s only one way down.’

 

 

 

Dropping 130 feet at night was a kick and a half.

Dropping 130 feet at night with a possible psychopath clutching you was the wrong kind of kick.

The benefit was that Ronan could navigate his way straight to the riverside walkway from this height, and ditch the webs. They’d dissolve by tomorrow night.

The disadvantage was that he landed and had an absurdly more detailed awareness of how sinewy his new companion was.

Sinewy and tense, like a wild animal.

‘That-’ The cat said finally. ‘-is an experience.’

Ronan tossed the webs with a lump of cement, and refused to look around. ‘Don’t think I missed the watch and the earrings in your pocket.’

‘Maybe I’m just excited.’

He swallowed, tried to cover it, failed miserably. ‘Be… _excited_ … somewhere else.’

‘As you wish.’ The cat pivoted away, but not without pointing down the river’s edge, to where the old Huntley hotel rose up from the park. ‘You showed me yours, perhaps I will show you mine.’

Ronan, against his better judgement, watched the thief run.

He scaled the building like it was nothing. He scaled it better than Ronan could dream of scaling it. He found footholds on blank stretches of stone, and momentum in nothing but his own weight.

At the top, he offered a single wave, and disappeared.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> waves_and_salt is the adorable co-parent of this baby, and has my eternal gratitude for their incredible ideas.

It wasn’t as though Ronan was plagued with guilt.

Much.

He just waited, breathlessly, through the next week, the week after that. He’d fucked up, he’d really fucked up, and he waited for it to catch him. Maybe he’d left something compromising at the scene, and they’d accuse the Widower of breaking and entering, maybe theft. Maybe the cat would get caught, and rat him out, blame him for the damage. Maybe Niall would just look across at him over breakfast one day, and _know_.

Then, abruptly, Ronan completely forgot about it.

Because Ronan’s chemistry teacher destroyed his life, one otherwise peaceful Wednesday afternoon.

Bertotti concluded his lesson five minutes early, and turned to sigh at them judgementally.

‘ _Now_ , there have been issues arising from the usual organisation of the term project-’ Bertotti waved aside a few groans; ‘- and understandably, nobody wants to be left carrying the load for the whole project, so we’ve changed the partnership structure.’

There was a greater hum of distress throughout the room. Even Ronan sat up straighter. He liked the old structure, highest grade with lowest, and he liked carrying the load alone. It was much, _much_ easier then trying to explain things to idiots.

His regular partner glanced across the room at him, wounded, and Ronan shrugged. _He_ hadn’t complained.

‘I don’t want anybody piggybacking on someone else’s work, so pairs will be partnered by closest grades. I don’t particularly care if you completely screw it up, I just want to see a little _effort_ , people. As I’m sure there’s been some variation in ranking since we last did this, I’ll put the pairs on the board. If you don’t know your partner, tough luck. This is what happens when certain people don’t pull their weight…’

He kept rambling as he started writing, and the students devolved into grumbling and hissing between one another, throwing accusations.

They were all in biochem anyway. Ronan didn’t understand how any of them managed to be so thick. ‘Easily distracted’, Gansey called it, much too politely.

Gansey wasn’t in his biochem class, that was a shame, but if he had been Ronan wouldn’t have been able to stare at Parrish quite so liberally.

He listened to his neighbour’s conversation - about that weekend party he’d gone to which was the reason he’d _needed_ his partner’s help so much last term - until the reality sank in.

He was at the top of the class, of course, because he always had been. He was at the top and he should’ve been safe.

Ronan stared at the whiteboard, the untidily scrawled black letters, his stomach knotting over and over and over until he felt like he was going to implode.

He’d known, he’d always known Parrish was trying to take top grade from him. He’d pondered that detail, with endless fascination, endless curiosity. He’d seen how smart Parrish was, how hard he worked to get so high a mark. He’d wondered if Parrish resented him for it. He’d wondered if Parrish thought about him at all.

_1) Lynch and Parrish._

He’d die. He was going to die.

Parrish was second best, in the whole class, like he had been last term, and the term before. Inches, sometimes a half-point away from Ronan’s assignment grades. Ronan would have to work with him. Ronan would have to _talk_ to him.

Would Ronan have sabotaged his last assignment, completely bombed it, if he’d suspected this would be the punishment for intelligence? Fucking hell, yes.

Someone leaned on his desk, and he jumped. His old partner, looking depressed.

‘Hey, man. We’re good, right?’

‘Yeah.’ Ronan swallowed, forced himself to nod. ‘Tough break, man.’

‘Good luck with Parrish. Hope he doesn’t knife you in the back.’

It wouldn’t be ideal, for Parrish. He couldn’t supersede Ronan when they were bound to receive the same grade. He was probably already fuming, even if it didn’t look like it.

It never did, though. Adam Parrish was as impassive as a cliff face. Worn down, sometimes, but that was always the extent of it.

Ronan had to stop thinking about it… about him. He already knew too much. He knew Adam’s grades, his classes, he knew about his habits, his mannerisms. _Fuck, fuck_. Ronan should probably pretend to not even know his name.

He wanted school to be over. He wanted to be at home, safely sequestered away with homework and Gansey and casual dialogue about the inevitable impending apocalypse.

There was still another class to sit through.

Oh, he’d be a jackass, if he didn’t talk to Parrish about their project. He couldn’t run away. He couldn’t pretend not to know, not to have realised they were paired up.

The bell rang. Ronan had never left a classroom faster.

He didn’t know if Parrish had seen him bolt. Tragically, he still had the nerve to hope not.

 

 

 

The cat hadn’t been around for a while anyway, not when Ronan was working, and somehow, hysterically, this was suddenly the only thing occupying his mind.

It was a three week project. It was three weeks, where he’d have to discuss and decide and experiment and prepare everything _with_ Parrish. That meant library time, laboratory time… house visits.

Maybe he’d walk into a drug den this weekend and get himself shot in the face.

He’d probably have to talk to Parrish before this weekend.

Gansey met him in PoliSci, scooted his desk a little closer. ‘Did you hear about Ellworthy? He tripped over during marching band and nearly took his eye out with his own trombone.’

Ronan wanted to laugh, badly, but he couldn’t.

‘Are you feeling alright?’ The trademarked Gansey brow-drop. Automatic concern. ‘You don’t look so good.’

‘M’fine.’

 _Unconvincing_. Gansey frowned. ’What’s up?’

Ronan leaned towards him, fidgeting out of sheer discomfort. ‘They changed the pairs in biochem.’

‘Oh.’ Gansey’s confusion was compounded by an awareness that Ronan was basically sitting pretty in biochem no matter what. ‘Who’d you get?’

‘Parrish.’ Ronan bent his pen in both hands, felt it begin to splinter, and hastily dropped it.

‘Oh.’ Gansey looked thoughtful, and then his expression cleared. ‘Adam? Don’t worry, he’s fine.’

Ronan tried, really tried not to stare at him with wild indignation.

‘I’ve got him in Ethics.’ Gansey explained, cheerfully. ‘He’s bright, really brilliant, actually. He can read practically anything without an interpretation to help him.’

This, unsurprisingly, wasn’t as soothing as Gansey had intended.

‘Isn’t he good at chemistry?’

Ronan faced the dilemma of saying ‘No’ and lying, saying ‘Yes’ and admitting he’d noticed, or mumbling ‘I don’t know’ and lacking an excuse for his level of horror at the partnership. He didn’t have a justification, to be fair. This was a nightmare of his own crafting.

Trapped, he just pulled his jaw tight and shook his head.

‘Ronan.’ Gansey scolded mildly. ‘You just have to get to know him.’

_No. No, no, no._

‘I’ll introduce you.’ Gansey continued firmly. ‘If you’ll be nice.’

‘You will _not_.’ Ronan hissed, using the teacher’s arrival as an excuse to flip sightlessly through his textbook. Jesus, no. He didn’t need someone holding his hand.

Well, yeah, he did, but he didn’t need that someone being obvious about it.

‘I thought nobody had ever beaten your chem marks.’ Gansey whispered. ‘Did Adam?’

‘No.’ Ronan answered hotly. ‘That’s not the point.’

Gansey looked bewildered, and unfazed by the teacher’s presence. ‘What did he do?’

Ronan just shot him a look, and Gansey shrugged and sat up.

 

 

 

Adam Parrish apparently had the good fortune of not being gripped with terror about the prospect of working together.

He also, clearly, had figured out how to find Ronan.

‘Gansey.’

Ronan recognised the voice, the accent, despite being buried head first in his locker. He thought he’d had some muesli bars left, or chocolates, or even fruit… anything to boost his blood sugar. School was over. Escape was so near. He wondered how long he could leave his head in the locker before it was weird.

‘Adam!’Gansey’s elbow hit Ronan’s spine, and he straightened reflexively. Goddammit.

Parrish was managing to look completely unassuming. His hair was pointing in odd angles, for some reason… probably the goggle strap from tech workshop. He wasn’t exactly eager, but he wasn’t aloof, either. He just seemed calm.

It wasn’t fair.

‘Ronan.’ Adam lifted one finger from the strap of his backpack to indicate Ronan’s chest. ‘Lynch?’

‘Right.’ Ronan crushed his pen into shards of inky plastic and fumbled his books into his locker. ‘You’re Parrish?’

He’d intended it to be just as casual, just as collected, but it came out several degrees cooler, and abrupt.

Fuck.

Parrish didn’t react. Ronan prayed he hadn’t noticed.

‘Was there something you wanted to do?’ Adam asked, patiently. ‘For biochem?’

Run away? Hide? Never come to class again?

‘No.’ Ronan shrugged, pushed his bag into the locker, tried to close the door. ‘Nothing special.’

Parrish nodded, careful, measured movement. His eyes were locked on Ronan’s face, and Ronan was trying super-fucking-hard to avoid looking back without making it obvious. ‘I’ll come up with some suggestions. You can take lead, if you want, though. You’re the expert.’

Sarcasm? Bitterness? Jealousy? Ronan couldn’t tell.

And he’d just realised he’d put his bag and his books into the locker when he was supposed to be taking them all home.

‘Fine.’ He opened the locker again, refusing to blush. ‘I’ll do the same.’

Gansey was itching to elbow him again, Ronan could tell. He would have done it without question if Parrish wasn’t watching.

‘Tomorrow.’ Ronan added sharply, snatching a handful of books. ‘We’ll organise something.’

If Parrish was disappointed, or offended, he didn’t show it. He nodded to Gansey; ‘Good luck this weekend.’

Ronan shoved the books into his bag, shoved the broken pen towards the back of the locker, waited for Parrish’s outline to recede from view. ‘What’s this weekend?’

Gansey slapped his shoulder. ‘You’re an ass sometimes.’

‘I’m an ass all the time.’ Ronan corrected. ‘You just don’t care. What’s this weekend?’

Gansey glared at him. ‘Rowing tournament with Leavenfield. You said you were coming.’

‘Oh.’ Ronan frowned. ‘Friday. Yeah.’

‘You do realise you have to work with him.’ Gansey said critically. ‘This competitive bullshit isn’t going to fly.’

‘Sorry, _Dad_.’ Ronan slung his bag over a shoulder. ‘I didn’t know he was so precious to you.’

‘Ronan.’ That tone was dropping _hard_ into threatening territory. ‘Don’t start on that.’

‘Fine.’ They headed for the carpark, hailed from all directions by Gansey’s compatriots. ‘Fine, fine.’

At least this was familiar ground. At least this was some excuse for why Ronan had acted the way he did.

It just meant Gansey was going to assume he was jealous… and Ronan could live with that.

 

 

 

He _did_ have ideas. He’d been thinking about what to do as a term project since the end of the last one.

With a functional brain, maybe he would even have been able to tell Parrish that, instead of slinging his books around like an idiot and being an asshole.

Gansey’s rowing thing was after school on Friday, in the evening, so Ronan probably wouldn’t be able to work. His parents were used to him taking breaks around projects, anyway. Aurora loved it. She always asked him to explain what he was planning to do, or make, or test, in ever-increasing detail.

She wouldn’t know, though, until he told her the assignment papers had been handed out. He wouldn’t… he wouldn’t have to explain that this time it wasn’t a solitary project.

He wanted to tell her, so badly it made his head hurt. _Partnered with Adam Parrish_. But what would he say? He’d never mentioned Adam to her, to anyone.

She ended up asking him, before dinner, when he came into the kitchen. She was always weirdly perceptive about their changes in mood. She’d probably picked it up watching Niall meander through his odd variety of emotions.

‘Anything exciting happen at school today?’

She was stripping peas from the pods, home-grown. Fat, promisingly green ones. Ronan found more muesli bars in the cupboard. He took the box.

‘Got the biochem project.’ He answered immediately. _Please, please let this help._

‘Oh?’ She glanced around, instantly pleased for him. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know.’ He confessed, joining her at the sink. ‘I’ve got a new partner.’

Her expression clouded; she’d never realised he had a partner. He’d always done the project alone.

He took a handful of pods, opened them, picked out the peas. ‘He’s smarter than the last one.’

She frowned, but he knew she understood. He’d been willing to do it alone, for the sake of his grades. And for the sake of his sanity.

‘Well…’ She smoothed her expression into a smile. ‘Be patient with him. Not everyone can be as smart as you.’

Ronan smiled, absently, at their pile of peas. ‘That’s probably not going to be a problem.’

‘I’ll tell your father.’ She said firmly. ‘You should invite him over, this weekend. Focus on your studies.’

_Adam, here?_

‘Maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know him that well.’

‘You could invite Gansey, too.’ She suggested brightly. ‘How long has it been since he’s stayed over?’

A week, max? Not long. It was remarkable that Gansey didn’t actually live with them, given the frequency with which he stayed over.

‘You don’t like him.’ Aurora commented, quietly, her hands slowing.

‘No.’ Ronan disagreed, feeling his chest tighten. ‘I just… I don’t want to screw up.’

His mother leaned against him, squeezing his shoulder with her chin. She, happily, thought he meant the project.

It was true, Ronan didn’t want to fuck up his biochem record. He didn’t want to fuck up Adam’s, either.

He definitely didn’t want to find out that Adam Parrish actually was an asshole. He couldn’t stomach that thought.

And he didn’t _really_ want to discover that Parrish was fine, likeable, actually, and still light years out of his reach.


	4. Poor life choices

Parrish found him, early, the next day.

‘It’s your call.’ He started, before Ronan had even fully identified his presence. ‘How we do this.’

Gansey wasn’t nearby, outside physics class, but that didn’t stop Ronan from desperately looking around for help.

‘I don’t care.’ He tried not to shrug, not to sound so dismissive again. ‘I usually work on it alone, so this is… uh…’ _A wonderful disappointment of a sentence. Thanks brain._

Adam winced, actually visibly winced. ‘Me too.’

For a moment, Ronan just stared at him, and Parrish quickly interpreted the unspoken accusation.

‘I didn’t mind.’ He said emphatically. ‘It was… easy.’ _I didn’t bitch to the teacher. I didn’t want this either._

‘Great.’ Ronan dropped his bag on his foot, tried to distract himself and summon some mental balance.

There was a pause. Parrish looked… uncertain. Ronan’s stomach was trying to flee his body.

‘Do you have a free period, tomorrow?’ His own voice sounded weird and muffled, like he was talking through water. ‘Or… or the weekend. I’m not busy.’ Apart from the crime-fighting, although his mother had probably already told Niall to do it.

‘I have third period free.’ Adam supplied. ‘And-’ A glance sideways, calculating something in his head. ‘-the weekend.’

Third period was Ronan’s World History class. He’d skip it. ‘Alright. Library?’

 _The weekend._ Ronan would actually see Parrish outside of school.

Adam nodded, once.

 

 

 

A biochemistry assignment shared with Ronan Lynch. It was… problematic.

Lynch was a genius at chemistry. Adam had spent hours that he should have spent focused on other things, just trying to come up with an adequate project proposal. And even then, when they’d met in the library, the first suggestions Lynch had given had been better.

They weren’t spontaneous, Adam reasoned. Obviously Lynch had been planning this for a while.

The most unexpected aspect of the meeting had been its efficiency. It was only an hour, after all, but they’d each laid out the options, and Adam had agreed with Lynch’s, not because it was the easy route but because it was the better _plan_.

And then they’d covered the steps, briefly.

Lynch at least had justification for all his ego. There wasn’t a concern Adam could raise that he didn’t have a response for. It was like he saw the world in biochemistry terms. He had an instinct for it.

Adam understood chemistry, perfectly well. He understood and he enjoyed it. Still, Lynch would always be ahead of him, by virtue of natural talent. It was infuriating.

But Lynch gave a damn about the project, and that was all Adam could have asked for.

It took out his weekend, though. He’d have to meet Lynch, at the city library, and spend valuable time discussing the project with him, and fit in other assignments around that…

He moved his plans forward, and went out hunting.

There was a nice, waterfront apartment building he’d been eyeing off as his next target. It would only be lucrative if someone was out for the night, but Adam happened to know that at least one apartment would be empty.

The residents were almost guaranteed to be enjoying some admirable rowing demonstrations over near Leavenfield.

And he had a backup plan, anyway. Maybe another nice department store.

Possibly the last encounter with the Widower had left him feeling… overconfident. It wasn’t as though he’d won. He’d just persuaded the vigilante to release him, apparently, and he didn’t even know how.

He liked it, though.

Probably he was too small a criminal, for the Widower’s attention, maybe even for the criminal justice system. It was too far a leap to think the vigilante had really known that Adam didn’t mean any harm. Maybe it was fascination, with another non-human. Because the Widower must be something else, like Adam. Not the same thing, but close.

Maybe that meant the Widower didn’t have a family, either… a biological family. Adam, at least, had the Wyvern women. And Blue.

He was curious about who the Widower had.

The apartment (804) was silent for the night. Adam took the jewellery, except the engagement ring, and cufflinks, and a roll of cash from the sock drawer. There were laptops, tablets, and an enormous television, but he couldn’t carry them. There was a little box of white powder in the bathroom… he left that alone.

He broke nothing, and the alarm remained undisturbed, and Adam left as quietly and quickly as he’d arrived.

It wasn’t a huge haul, but he had enough cash, at least, to last the weekend, and Blue would give him more next week for the jewellery.

He was already halfway home when he heard the fight.

It didn’t sound particularly serious… typical back alley stuff. But when he hit the rooftop, and peered down, it was more than he’d expected. Gangster bullshit, he realised. Knife blades glinting in the darkness. There were five of them - no, six, the sixth was black clad head-to-toe.

The Widower.

Adam perched on the edge of his vantage point, and watched.

It was hard to make out the figures, but inhuman eyesight helped. The Widower was throwing down like nobody’s business. He obviously packed a hell of a punch. Adam was probably lucky he’d never been on the receiving end, at least not without warning.

Maybe he’d been taking it easy on Adam, the first time they’d met. He was only a thief, after all. The guys with knives were getting gut-punched and catapulted through the air. One got a kick to the face, another took a blade to the shoulder.

He was vicious, and the fight was over quickly. Adam clicked his teeth together. Really, he ought to just leave.

The Widower took his time clearing up, taking out anyone who was stupid enough to try and stand. Adam climbed down the fire escape, landed gently in the alley. He was pushing his luck, he knew it, but the Widower intrigued him. Why take it easy on a thief? And a non-human one, at that?

Why let him go, after going to all the effort of catching him?

Adam stepped over a prone figure, slinking up behind the vigilante.

‘Having fun without me?’

He dodged the first punch, the one he knew was coming. He narrowly evaded the second swing.

The kick caught him, straight to the chest, high enough to throw him backwards and low enough to knock the wind out of him.

He leaned forward, to avoid falling over, braced himself on one arm.

The Widower grabbed the back of his neck, and squeezed, hard enough to bruise, holding him down.

He knew the knee was coming, and he sank all five nails into it as the Widower threw it up.

His own hand hit his jaw, stinging from the glove and momentum, but the Widower had released his neck, cursing, and Adam took the opportunity to run.

 _Shit, shit_. Oh shit, he was so stupid.

That wasn’t him, it wasn’t the Widower. Didn’t move like him, didn’t fight like him. Adam should’ve seen it, should’ve known.

He didn’t stop running until he couldn’t move anymore, and he was blocks away, deep in his natural territory.

 _Shit_. His chest was aching, he couldn’t breathe, and he tasted blood.

Stupid, stupid. He shouldn’t have risked it. What the hell was he doing?

He dragged himself back home. He still had to see Lynch tomorrow, and he had two other assignments and homework to finish.

God only knew if he’d be bruised from this. Noticeably bruised. Not that Lynch would care, but he didn’t need anyone observing any injuries on him.

At least his haul was intact.

 

 

 

Ronan stayed at Gansey’s overnight.

He could have driven from Gansey’s to the library, in the afternoon, but he didn’t. He wanted to go home, shower, get changed… and apparently spend forty-five minutes in front of a mirror making it look like he hadn’t spent any time in front of a mirror at all.

His hair was too long. Too curly. Too dark.

He looked washed out. Tired. Sullen.

He looked… anxious. Really fucking anxious.

He threw his clothing in a heap on the floor and picked two items at random, stuffed himself into them, and refused to look in the mirror.

Matthew was coming up the stairs when he finally made it out of his bedroom.

‘Where you goin’?’ He asked accusingly, balancing a stack of food packages under his chin.

‘Out.’ Ronan tousled his hair, sliding past, but Matthew grunted at him.

‘Wait a sec.’

‘What?’

‘Dad’s up.’

Niall had been the on-duty Widower, while Ronan was at the rowing tournament, and he’d been asleep when Ronan had gotten home. But that didn’t explain Matthew’s look of conspiratorial excitement. ‘So?’

‘He wants to see you.’ Matthew grinned, toothily, a little too gleeful for Ronan’s comfort. ‘In the kitchen. With Mom.’

Ronan slid away, cautiously, and Matthew ambled into his room.

It wasn’t unusual for Niall to want to speak with him. It wasn’t odd for him to cover Ronan’s evenings as the vigilante.

But Matthew’s reaction was odd, which didn’t bode well for Ronan. Maybe Aurora had mentioned the previous projects, and the lack of an involved partner. Maybe she’d mentioned his uneasiness about Adam.

He went to the kitchen, warily, and trying not to look like he’d been worrying about his appearance.

‘Ronan.’ Niall looked up as he came in. He was smiling… that wasn’t a bad sign. Ronan relaxed. Matthew had probably been messing with him.

’Have you got something to tell me?’

Nope, tense _everything_.

He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Looked at his mother, back to Niall. Produced a garbled noise that was vaguely inquisitive.

What the fuck had he done?

And then, apparently, forgotten?

‘Someone was looking for you last night.’ Niall continued, amused. ‘I don’t think they were all that pleased to run into me.’

Oh, fuck, no. The cat. _No_.

Ronan swallowed, leaned against the counter behind him. ‘The thief?’

‘Is that it?’ Niall raised his eyebrows. ‘You’ve never mentioned him.’

‘I didn’t-’ He swallowed, again. Why not? Why hadn’t he? Because Niall wouldn’t approve of what he’d done. ‘I didn’t think.’

‘I’m sure you noticed he’s not just human.’ Niall pointed out. ‘That’s important, Ronan. Why wouldn’t you tell me that?’

Aurora was looking at him very sympathetically, but Niall still hadn’t actually admonished him. He shifted nervously - God, had his father gotten the cat caught? Or… had he dealt with it himself?

‘I wasn’t…’ He shouldn’t lie, he _couldn’t_ lie. ‘I was curious. And I… couldn’t beat him.’

Niall nodded, slowly at first and then with more certainty.

‘It’s okay, Ronan.’ Aurora arrived in his space, in a grateful flurry of limbs and hair. ‘You shouldn’t be embarrassed about that. You know you can tell us anything.’

Ronan couldn’t see it, but he predicted she was staring pointedly at Niall.

‘What did he do?’ Niall pressed, his voice faintly muffled by a cloud of Aurora’s hair in Ronan’s face. He was taller than his mother, now, somehow. It still seemed strange.

‘He’s just a thief.’ Ronan explained. He should have warned his father, yes, but why did he feel sick thinking about what might have happened, what had happened? ‘He steals jewellery, mostly.’

He’d never tried to hurt anyone. He’d never tried to hurt _Ronan_ , even when he had good enough cause to. Aurora released him, and he smiled weakly at her.

‘Did you catch him?’ So maybe his voice was a little anxious. Maybe his parents would chalk it up to the scolding he’d just avoided.

‘No.’ Niall shrugged, comfortably. He seemed satisfied with Ronan’s explanations and with what he knew of Ronan’s actions, and his attention was cheerfully back where it belonged. On his lunch. ‘He’s lucky he’s quick, though. I would have broken his jaw.’

Ronan winced into the edge of the counter.

 

 

 

He was late to the library. Not by much, but Adam had already gotten started.

Ronan found him at a desk, a battered old laptop and his notes from the previous meeting spread out in front of him. Predictably, he’d picked the quietest, most obscure corner of the building.

‘Parrish.’ Ronan announced, landing in the chair opposite him.

‘Lynch.’ Adam answered. His tone lacked any accusatory sentiment, but Ronan couldn’t tell if that was just self-restraint.

The previous meeting had gone relatively well. Ronan had tried to keep his mouth shut, and avoided any embarrassing remarks. He didn’t escape the slow torture of sitting two feet from Parrish, and having books and notes handed to him with dangerously distracting fingers. The redness on Parrish’s hands had been lighter, for some reason, but Ronan thought it was strangely patterned. Probably some kind of allergy. His fingernails, which Ronan had never been close enough to notice before, were even and pale.

Whether resentful or not, Adam had accepted Ronan’s choice of project, and approved of his comments. He’d been swift to grasp Ronan’s plans, and had suggested some breathtakingly precise modifications. Ronan had watched him write down the plan, in neat, rapid handwriting. He didn’t use cursive, but balanced, clear script.

He’d already started writing the analysis on the laptop, carefully elaborating the details. Ronan watched his fingers move across the keyboard, accurate despite the faded marks on the keys. He didn’t falter… when he paused, it was to glance aside, seek some piece of information from what he’d copied the previous day.

Ronan read the notes, absently made some of his own, and mostly pretended not to stare.

The library air-conditioning seemed to have caught Parrish by surprise. He was huddled up in an old parka, and curled over the laptop like he was half-asleep. When he finished, he pushed the laptop over to Ronan, in exchange for the notations Ronan had been making.

That was how they worked, for an hour, and longer, until Ronan was fidgeting from hunger and restlessness.

Parrish was fixated on the work, revising with Ronan’s notes, endlessly thinking from different angles. It was less important to Ronan to plan it carefully to begin with, than to do the experiments and describe the results, but he wouldn’t dispute Adam’s methods.

‘Parrish.’ Finally, Ronan tapped the table.

‘Mm?’ Adam turned a sheet of paper, squinting at Ronan’s handwriting. His eyebrows pulled together above his nose, light gold against his skin.

Ronan cleared his throat. ‘Food, Parrish.’

‘I’m okay.’ Adam didn’t look up. ‘Don’t wait for me.’

It took Ronan a halting second to realise he was being dismissed. Not so forthrightly, of course, but Adam didn’t find him necessary.

He’d brought a bag, a notebook, an intact pen. He left them, to signify his return, but he wasn’t sure Parrish even noticed.

There was a vending machine downstairs.

Ronan pondered over it, hungry and distracted. He was somehow on speaking terms with Adam Parrish, as improbable as that seemed. And there were three more weeks of this, stretching out dizzyingly in front of him.

It wasn’t as though they were friends. Their exchanges didn’t stretch beyond mumbled questions about chemistry and equally indistinct acknowledgements.

The only thing Ronan could _do_ was talk about chemistry. The friend-making thing didn’t really come naturally to him… There had always been family, and now there was Gansey. He didn’t need anything else.

Even if he did want to run his fingers across Parrish’s knuckles.

He went back to the desk, dumped an armful of snacks onto the table, and slouched back into his chair. Parrish hadn’t moved, but the cascade of processed food did seem to stir him.

‘Jesus.’ His eyes widened. ‘Did you buy everything?’

‘A man’s gotta eat, Parrish.’ Ronan shrugged, tried to ignore the brutal rapture of saying his name, asking for his attention. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’

He gestured to the food, an open invitation. Parrish recoiled. ‘No.’

 _Fuck_. He wouldn’t even look at the food. How had that been the wrong move?

‘Alright, man, but you’re doing all the work.’ _Be cool, be cool_. Parrish hadn’t gotten up and run away, he’d just been a little unimpressed. It wasn’t the end of the world.

Maybe he didn’t like processed snacks. Maybe he was allergic to nuts… and _that_ was why his hands were messed up.

Not everything Ronan had bought had nuts.

He leaned forward, and swiped the food to the far side of the table. ‘Have you made progress?’

‘Yes.’ Adam answered flatly. Ronan felt his eyebrows lift involuntarily. The first sign of irritation he’d ever seen in Parrish, or at least the first that he’d recognised. The kid _really_ didn’t like snacks.

Ronan continued to eat, with as much noise and satisfaction as he could muster. He didn’t know how to respond to Parrish’s irritation with anything but defensiveness. Was he pissed about doing all the typing? Was he angry because Ronan had wanted a break?

Ronan wished he could be thoughtless, ruin Adam’s mood (more than he already had), but he didn’t want to. He just wanted to slink out of the library with his tail between his legs and find his way back to bed so he could bury his shame in pillows and blankets. He wanted to repair Adam’s impression of him, erase his mistake. He wanted to not feel like someone was twisting his guts.

God, if he was Gansey, he wouldn’t be having any problems at all.

Probably.

Adam was… complicated. More complicated than other people from Aglionby.

He wasn’t the same as the other students. Like Gansey wasn’t the same, like Ronan wasn’t the same. He didn’t seem to live in the same superbright, cartoonish world that everyone else did. Parrish was more solid… more real.

Gansey was real, too, in his intensity and perspective and the way he’d sit on the floor next to Ronan in the dark, and talk and talk about everything his mind could encompass.

And Ronan… was in his own world. Maybe only in part, but it was enough.

‘I can get my own.’ Adam said unexpectedly. ‘Food.’

Ronan’s eyebrows continued to escape his control. He didn’t understand what he’d _done_ …

‘Sure.’ He said, offhandedly. Then, tartly; ‘Never said you couldn’t.’

_Don’t antagonise him, you dickhead._

Parrish looked up, examining him with such open scrutiny that Ronan could _feel_ himself blushing.

‘No.’ He said finally. ‘You didn’t.’

He pushed the laptop back across the table for editing, and Ronan hastily wiped his cheese powdered hands on his jeans.

‘I _can_ eat it all myself.’ Ronan commented, inanely. He immediately felt like a five-year-old, proudly declaring that he could now dress himself without assistance. He might as well have told Parrish he could fit five Oreos in his mouth.

Which he could.

Adam looked at him again, another assessment, and then said evenly. ‘I wouldn’t want to force you to carry that burden, Lynch.’

It was sarcasm, pure and simple, but Parrish permitted the faintest curve to possess his mouth, and Ronan felt absurdly like he’d taken a flare to the stomach. Burnt. Apprehensive. Humming with energy.


	5. Check your priorities, please

Lynch hadn’t been mocking him. With the food, or the throwaway remark. If Adam had been paying more attention, he would have realised that before snapping at him.

But it was hot, in the corner, and his neck was aching and he just wanted to get through a few more paragraphs.

Ronan Lynch probably didn’t even know he was a scholarship student. He’d never noticed Adam before, never run with the assholes who had. He was close friends with Richard Gansey, the nicest guy in school, which meant he probably wasn’t as much of a dick as he seemed.

Gansey knew… even if he’d never remarked upon it. But there was no reason he’d have discussed that with Lynch. Though Gansey engaged with other students, Lynch never seemed interested, regardless of who it was.

He had a habit of leaning back in his chair, trying to balance on two chair legs, or one, with just his knee braced against the table. He’d seemed distracted, when he arrived, and substantially more distracted after obtaining food, but he didn’t interrupt Adam’s work. Every addition he made was effortlessly insightful, like he was surprised it wasn’t obvious.

He had cheese flavouring on his cheek though, a faint, orange smear of it.

There was a bruise, underneath Adam’s chin, but it was barely visible. Worse was the one on his abdomen, between his ribs, and what he suspected was on the back of his neck. He was hoping they would subside enough by Monday to escape wearing his collar up. He was hoping they’d subside enough by tomorrow to prevent Blue from giving him one of her looks.

His hands were worse again, though. He’d have to do something about the gloves. He needed them to be as tight as possible, for precision, but it infuriated his already raw skin.

And the Widower… the not-Widower… the sudden reality of getting his ass kicked.

It was alarming. It was a warning to stay wary, to not get smug. But he was curious too, in spite of himself. An almost identical suit, on two different people? They’d have to work as a team - Adam had never heard of this possibility - and they would have to avoid confronting the same people on different occasions.

Adam had forced the matter, which probably wasn’t going to win him any favours.

A wrapper crinkled noisily across the table, where Lynch had prised open another chocolate bar while reading off the laptop.

He had made decent inroads into the pile, but Adam languidly extracted a Kit-Kat. Chocolate was still a luxury, despite the extra money he had nowadays. He couldn’t rationalise buying candy when he was aware there were more textbooks to buy, down the road, and gifts for the Wyverns.

Chocolate was so freakishly good, though.

They’d agreed on the library, and that was another thing to be thankful for. Adam’s previous partner had never bothered to even suggest a meeting, so he’d never had to worry about anyone trying to establish where he lived. Getting through three weeks without the subject coming up with Lynch was his objective.

Not that Lynch would be interested in seeing his apartment… especially not if he discovered Adam’s reputation.

Lynch returned the laptop, and said; ‘You’ve done most of the work already.’

Adam glanced up, startled by his seriousness. ‘You had an outline for the whole thing.’

‘An outline.’ Lynch repeated. ‘In my head. At this rate we’ll have the lab work and observations complete by the end of this week.’

He sounded impressed, butpossibly it was disguising scorn.

‘I think we’ll need more laboratory time for Part 4.’ Adam suggested quietly. ‘Especially if it doesn’t work initially.’

He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard of Lynch’s experiments going wrong, but he liked to factor in potential failure.

Lynch yielded. ‘Maybe.’ He looked as though he was thinking of saying more, but didn’t.

Adam hesitated, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. It was getting late… Lynch probably wanted to leave. He had more to do, but there were other assignments that needed attention before Monday.

‘Is that… enough?’ He asked carefully.

‘Enough?’ Lynch raised his eyebrows.

Adam just nodded appreciatively. He didn’t want to stay much longer, and risk missing the late bus back downtown. He closed the laptop.

‘Do you have a free period on Monday?’ It didn’t take much to figure out that Lynch had skipped class on Friday to meet with him. Adam badly didn’t want to miss any classes, but it was only fair to reciprocate.

‘No.’ Lynch shrugged, almost apologetically.

Adam steeled himself for the inevitable, derisive refusal, and asked; ‘After school?’

Amazingly, Lynch only looked thoughtful. ‘Sure.’

 _Hell_. He didn’t seem the type to linger at school any longer than necessary. He must really be dedicated to biochemistry.

Lynch seemed to register Adam’s surprise, and clarified; ‘Rowing practice.’

‘You row?’ Adam didn’t remember him being counted among the team members, dragged up every opportunity at school assemblies and presentations and announcements.

Lynch snorted. ‘Fuck no.’

Gansey. Of course. The loyalty between the two of them ran deep.

Adam had never asked, when he’d started at Aglionby, who people were. He’d never needed to. Within days strangers had willingly introduced him to every sordid fact known about his fellow classmates, and he’d promptly been told about Richard Gansey III, the light of the school, the golden boy.

Lynch wasn’t his sidekick, not a minion, and not as golden, but people loved to talk about him too, probably even more than Gansey. He was different, more distant from them, more like an ancient Greek god than the walking Jesus that Gansey was. His lack of interest in them made him more fascinating, as a figure of gossip.

They walked out together, and parted ways on the sidewalk, Lynch heading towards the carpark with a wave as an afterthought. Adam went for the bus stop, a few blocks down.

 

 

 

He _had_ made progress on the written component. He’d been pushing himself, admittedly, because there was a considerable degree of unpredictability in trying to organise things with a partner. He assumed Lynch would lose focus quickly, and half the work would be done last minute.

He was buried in an ethics reading when someone tapped on the apartment door in the evening.

It was Eve, leaning on his doorframe. ‘I wanted to check on you.’

He tried to invite her in, but she shook her head. ‘I’m working, doll. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t have plans to go out tonight.’

‘Go out tonight’ was easy slang. Different for each of them, but they both knew what the other would mean.

‘What’s wrong?’ This type of warning usually meant cops were in the area, patrolling, or bullying. Adam sometimes wanted to be nearby, in case anything got out of hand, but the Wyverns were more than competent in defending themselves.

’One of those vigilantes is around.’ Eve explained, softly. ‘The girls out on Jubilee saw him.’

Adam shifted his weight, hearing the old floorboards creak in protest. His apartment was little more than a closet, but the building offered him some exclusive protection, not least of which being the advice the Wyverns gave him. Vigilantes came through the area often, but often only to drag someone out.

Still… maybe it was the Widower. Maybe he was (they were?) hunting the cat.

‘Is he bothering them?’

Eve sighed, affectionately. ‘No. He’s alright.’ She stepped back from the door, turned to go. As always, he marvelled at her balance. ‘Keep yourself out of trouble, Adam.’

And with a final, knowing look, she’d descended the stairs.

 _He’s alright_. Adam would have to ask around, in the building, about the Widower. Was he known here? Was he a bastard? Did he have vices?

But it might not even have been the Widower, or _a_ Widower.

Adam wouldn’t know unless he went to check.

 

 

 

He travelled significantly more carefully, this time, always in shadow. It was slower, but he knew the district better than anyone, and he’d reached Jubilee within minutes.

Two of the Wyverns were here, but Adam didn’t approach them. The vigilante would have moved on, by now, and if not Adam would only make himself and others into targets.

He moved to the rooftops, even more slow, even more cautious. The Widower travelled by rooftop, but fought on the street, and Adam was safer here with some high ground if it was any other vigilante. He knew where to find the fire escapes, and the strategically open windows, and how to dodge the shadier buildings and the dens.

He’d only gone three blocks when he saw the silhouette, just ahead of him. Just poised on the edge of a roof, half hidden by standing vents, looking down at the street. Crouched, so it was difficult to make out the build, even the features.

Adam ducked back, forced himself to rethink the situation. This was a risky exercise. The vigilante, whoever it was, had been approved by the Wyverns, and didn’t appear to be troubling anyone else.

He was curious, that was it, foolishly curious. Curious about whether the Widower would consider it worth the time to try and follow him here, if it even was the Widower. Curious about which Widower it might be. Curious to see just how badly he’d misstepped. He’d run in the direction of his own neighbourhood the previous night, so if the Widower was here, he’d followed Adam’s trail without difficulty.

He’d need to get closer to figure it out. Perhaps the figure was pursuing someone else, or planning an attack, and it was worth being ready for the repercussions.

It was lucky the vigilante was facing the other way, or he could have walked straight into a beating.

He moved closer, edging around the vent, towards the rooftop access, low to the ground and noiseless.

The figure straightened, turned to look back across the rooftop, and Adam froze, hugging the shadows, watching intently. Some sound had disturbed him, even if he couldn’t identify Adam’s exact location.

Narrow, yes. Black-clad, and tall, and agile. He wasn’t as broad as the second Widower. He must have been the original.

He could still try to kill Adam. Maybe that was why he’d come here.

Adam lowered his voice; ‘How many of you are there?’

The Widower tilted his head, and stepped off the edge of the roof. He didn’t pick out Adam’s position straight away, but he searched.

‘Are you hurt?’

This one was younger, Adam would guarantee it. He’d seemed unseasoned the first time Adam had met him, but his skills were impressive. Was he in training? A recruit? Was this some kind of team? Or a legacy?

‘I’ll survive.’ Adam stood, reached for the top of the roof access building, and pulled himself up. The Widower marked him, but didn’t move.

He watched Adam gain the ground. ‘I didn’t mean to attack you.’

‘You didn’t.’ Adam lingered far enough back to gain some cover from any potential webs. ‘Attack me.’

The Widower didn’t answer. The multiple-Widower situation was a secret, then. But Christ, it must make them effective. They must have both been non-human, but Adam had so rarely encountered non-humans that two additions to the list in such rapid succession was almost breathtaking.

His concern was disconcerting. Adam didn’t know him, he didn’t know Adam. Adam was a thief, a target, not some lighthearted acquaintance. The Widower, according to reputation, ought to be dragging him to the feet of a police officer. He’d have to be naive, to feel guilty over it, and foolish, to seek forgiveness. He’d have to be very young, or very gentle, or both.

‘Don’t worry.’ Adam hummed. He let his claws extend, sank them into the tin surface below him. ‘I enjoy surprises.’

He despised surprises.

There was silence, the Widower still watching, and Adam waiting for his response.

‘Are you just here to check up on me?’ He let his voice drawl, slightly, to provoke a reaction.

’Not a great neighbourhood.’ The Widower answered, finally. ‘Watch your back, Furface.’

And like that he was gone, dropping from the edge of the roof without caution.

 

 

 

There were two morning classes with Parrish on Monday. Ronan watched him fidget pens around his desk and scratch the backs of his hands.

He’d replayed Saturday endlessly, in unforgiving detail. The turn of Adam’s wrists, and the even murmur of his voice, and the fragile seconds he’d made eye contact before Ronan had looked away.

He’d smiled possibly once, and barely, but he _had_ eaten a Kit-Kat. Surely that could be counted as a win. Whatever terrible impression Ronan had made had at least been moderated by chocolate.

It didn’t matter, essentially. What the hell was Ronan planning to do, befriend him?

He couldn’t get closer to Parrish. Partly because Parrish wasn’t likely to let him, partly because it was beyond shady to pursue friendship while pretending there was nothing else was going on. Ronan didn’t think he could stomach it.

And in the unlikely event it actually worked, it would probably kill him.

‘Ronan.’ Something nudged his ankle. ‘Ronan.’

‘Hm?’

Gansey was staring at him. Ronan had vaguely registered that he was talking, but he hadn’t been listening.

‘Jesus, Lynch.’

‘What?’ Ronan shifted his back against the wall, tried not to look guilty. Gansey wasn’t buying it.

‘You’re not listening.’

‘No.’ He admitted. ‘What did you say?’

They were securely settled behind the robotics lab, isolated from the rest of the lunch crowd. The chocolate in Ronan’s cookies had melted, despite the overcast sky.

‘I asked you how things were going with Adam.’

Ronan bit the inside of his mouth to keep from flinching. ‘Ehh. Fine.’

‘Are you being nice?’

‘I’m always nice.’

‘No, you’re…’ Gansey paused. ‘Unapproachable.’

‘That sounds like someone else’s problem.’

Gansey sighed, and broke off a piece of cookie. ‘How is the project going?’

‘Well enough.’ Ronan shrugged uneasily. He didn’t know how to talk about Parrish with another actual person. Any attempt to avoid admiration only resulted in outright hostility. ‘He’s staying after school.’

‘Oh, excellent.’ This admission seemed to considerably alleviate Gansey’s concern. ‘Am I still alright to stay at yours tonight?’

‘Yeah, man.’ Ronan answered. Gansey was his ride home, anyway, and Ronan always appreciated the company.

‘Is something wrong?’ Gansey was frowning, again. ‘You’ve been kind of… distracted. For a while now.’

‘I’m good.’ Ronan rubbed his eyes, struggled to piece together a sensible response. ‘Just waiting for school to finish, I guess.’

It wasn’t a lie. The end of the day meant time near Parrish, as unsettling as that was, and the end of the term meant holidays and Widower duties.

Admittedly, being the Widower had become more complicated of late. The cat knew there were two people who wore the suit… but he hadn’t been threatening. He didn’t seem hurt, either, which was a relief.

Ronan was responsible for him mistakenly approaching Niall, and responsible if either of them had been injured. But he’d shown up, incredibly, when Ronan had tried to trace him.

He wouldn’t go near Niall again, hopefully, but Ronan wasn’t certain that Niall would be as restrained.


	6. How to make friends and mock their friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the poor quality on this one, reality caught up with me. I was running real fast I swear.

They hadn’t agreed on a place to meet. Adam considered waiting in the library, but he already had a strong suspicion about where he could find Ronan Lynch.

There were small concrete bleachers near the school boatshed, but they were rarely used. During races most of the crowd gathered downriver, on grassy shorelines and bridges, leaving the stark concrete abandoned except by benched team members and the occasional loyal girlfriend. Lynch had the place to himself, probably because of the imminent threat of rain. He was slumped across one of the steps, one leg hooked lazily off the side.

It looked like he was asleep, but he shifted as soon as Adam stepped onto the concrete, and sat up.

‘Parrish.’ His enthusiasm caught Adam by surprise. ‘Library?’

‘Here is fine.’ Adam searched for a copy of the assignment report in his backpack, and handed it to him.

‘You finished it?’ Disbelief, perhaps, caused Lynch’s eyebrows to climb.

‘No.’ Adam answered swiftly. ‘I need, uh… your edit.’

Ronan smiled again, and Adam added; ’There’s the observations and results, too. And any methodology changes.’

‘Of course.’ Unsurprisingly, Lynch’s smile wasn’t a response to Adam. The boatshed door was hanging open, and slowly, with a surprising lack of dexterity, the rowing team was carrying one of the kayaks out. All of them had their knees visible, which made Adam eminently uncomfortable. They only managed to get about halfway down the ramp, and they seemed to be having an unusual degree of difficulty manoeuvring their cargo.

‘Impractical.’ Lynch commented, unexpectedly. ‘Incredible.’

He wasn’t wrong. The rowers seemed to be intent on shifting the balance of the boat, but it wasn’t clear what they were actually trying to achieve.

Gansey appeared in the shadow of the group, his eyes wide with suppressed regret.

‘Gentlemen.’ He edged over to the bleacher where Adam stood, and looked down at Lynch smirking. ‘How goes it?’

‘Almost finished.’ Lynch reported, shrugging.

‘There’s a few hours worth of lab work to do.’ Adam frowned, uneasily. ‘Provided it works.’

He wasn’t sure how this doubt would sit with Lynch, but fortunately his partner’s attention was still elsewhere.

Gansey tapped his lip benignly. ‘Why don’t you use the Lynch’s lab?’

Lynch looked around so fast Adam thought he might have gotten whiplash. He didn’t say anything, but Gansey’s remark had clearly needled him, whether by accident or design.

It wasn’t as clear how to actually react to this piece of advice.

‘Ronan’s parents’ lab.’ Gansey continued, brightly. ‘At the Barns.’

Lynch wasn’t about to make any concessions. He didn’t stoop to actually glaring at Gansey, but the intention was definitely there.

‘His parents are scientists.’ Gansey explained, unfazed. ‘You could probably do most of your lab work there if you’re concerned about time.’

There was silence. A muscle in Lynch’s jaw twitched. Gansey was pretending he wasn’t jubilant about Lynch’s displeasure.

Adam cleared his throat. ‘What’s wrong with the boat?’

Gansey’s victorious expression crumbled. He winced. ‘They’re trying to drain the water out.’

‘By turning it upside down?’

‘There’s a… a plug at one end.’

‘So they’re tilting it?’

If it was possible, Gansey winced harder. ‘No-oo.’

‘They’re trying to lift it vertical.’ Lynch interjected gleefully. ‘Watch.’

Gansey sighed. ‘Ronan-’

‘Why?’

‘Because they’re idiots.’ Ronan replied, with undisguised satisfaction.

They weren’t far away from the strange boat-handling activity, but the participants were distracted enough not to overhear. Adam crouched anyway, so he could murmur to Lynch; ‘Isn’t Felton in our Physics class?’

Lynch made a noise of amusement mixed with disdain.

The rest of the team shuffled out of the shed with a second kayak, slammed the door, and became unhelpfully stuck behind the first group.

Lynch looked at Gansey, laughing. ‘ _Every_ time.’

‘I know.’

‘Every _damn_ time, Gansey.’

‘I know.’

Gansey sighed again and dragged himself away to help.

 

 

 

It started raining fifteen minutes after Adam had arrived. Lynch had already read through the report, and presumably for Adam’s sake was making a second pass at it.

He stowed the paper rapidly, and gestured towards the boat shed. Adam scrambled, covering his backpack with his body, but when Lynch hit the door it rattled and didn’t move.

‘What-’ He shoved it again. ‘Damn.’

‘They locked it?’

‘They locked it.’

The rowers, for some reason, were fleeing from the water. Adam looked at Lynch quizzically, and he shrugged. ‘Idiots.’

They beached the boats with the absolute minimum of concern, and Adam rapidly stepped aside as the first barely dressed individual made it to the door.

He ineffectually repeated Lynch’s action, and rattled the door in horror. ‘Sam? SAM? Did you lock the door?’

There was a muffled reply, and then Sam joined them. He was unquestionably a senior, but the door seemed to stump him. ‘Shit. Oh shit.’

Silently, Lynch swivelled and shot Adam a look.

‘Did you lock the key inside?’ Gansey gasped, arriving a few seconds late but clearly recognising a familiar situation.

‘Shit.’ The first rower observed heavily. ‘Go get the spare from Betts.’

Sam took off at a jog in the direction of the school.

Lynch nudged Gansey, raised an eyebrow at Adam, and disappeared around the corner. Gansey considered his options before conceding, and Adam followed him. Lynch was looking up, checking the narrow windows just under the eaves of the shed, and Gansey smiled apologetically at Adam.

‘I hope your work wasn’t ruined.’ He said ruefully.

‘No.’ Adam shook his head. ‘Does this happen often?’

‘Eh. It happens enough.’

Ahead of them, Lynch had located a potential window. It didn’t appear to be open, but upon closer inspection Adam realised it was unlatched, and there was a sliver of space between the frame and the pane where it swung up at the bottom.

‘Here.’ Lynch pointed to it, dropping his bag on the damp grass and dirt. He gestured to Gansey, who cringed.

‘Please no.’

‘Come on, it’ll take him hours to find the spare.’ Curls of Ronan’s hair were starting to stick to his forehead, and he kept wiping drops of water from his eyes. He seemed oddly distinct, in the rain, like he was suddenly in focus, and he was obviously enjoying himself.

Adam examined the window. It was loose, so they could use it. It was also high, so even Lynch would need someone’s assistance to reach and open it before he was able to climb inside. As much as Gansey was evidently physically capable of lifting Ronan up, Adam was acutely aware that it would only take him ten seconds to reach the window, open it, climb inside and get to the door without any help at all.

And Gansey wasn’t willing.

And Adam’s backpack was starting to get wet.

‘I’ll do it.’ He interrupted.

Lynch stared at him blankly, and Gansey looked aghast.

‘I’ll fit.’ Adam shrugged forcibly. ‘Better than you.’ He nodded at Lynch.

Lynch didn’t move. Gansey looked as though he was trying to summon a refusal.

‘You _can_ lift me?’ Adam lowered his bag, as close to the building as possible so it absorbed less water.

‘Of course.’ Lynch looked mildly, momentarily affronted. He moved his back to the wall beneath the window. ‘Alright.’

Doing this kind of thing at school wasn’t advisable, but it was only Lynch and Gansey. _Just take it easy._

Lynch threaded his fingers together and braced his back against the wall, blinking more water from his eyes, and Adam dug fingers into his shoulders.

‘Wait.’ Gansey protested. ‘What if you fall through and smack your head on the concrete?’

Adam glanced at him, amused. ‘I’ll try to avoid that.’

Lynch’s shoulders were damp, and his body heat was seeping through his shirt. His breath was ghosting against the side of Adam’s neck.

‘Hold his legs.’ Ronan instructed irritably.

Adam placed his shoe on Lynch’s hands, and shifted his weight forward. He felt Ronan lift, straightening against the wall, and moved his grip to one shoulder so he could open the window.

Lynch trembled, once, betraying the effort of taking Adam’s weight, but Adam had wrapped both hands around the window frame and was pulling himself inside. It was startlingly dark, though not difficult to see. He could balance easily while finding something to hold, but he felt Gansey grab his leg anyway. Lynch moved too, still supporting his weight while stepping out of his path.

Adam twisted until he could grasp the top of the window frame.

‘I’ve got it.’ He felt Lynch release him first, then Gansey, and pulled himself through.

For a moment he stayed poised, one shoe on the sill, one hand on the frame. It was absurdly risky to pull a stunt like this at school - even something so seemingly harmless - but it was impossible to resist such a golden plated opportunity. He assessed his route before dropping down silently into a clear space between a set of oars and a stack of sun-faded beach umbrellas.

He waited, just to ensure it seemed legitimate, and then approached the door.

‘Damn.’ The initial rower hadn’t moved from his position, clearly hadn’t observed their foray around the side of the building. ‘That was quick.’

Lynch and Gansey arrived a second later, and Lynch offered Adam his backpack. ‘Good work, future felon. America thanks you.’

 

 

 

Lynch returned the copy of the report, with his additions. Rowing practice was apparently called off, due to the rain. Nobody but Lynch and Gansey seemed to recognise the irony of rowers being offended by water.

Adam’s uniform was thoroughly wet, but his backpack wasn’t. If he was able to, he’d dry it all in front of someone’s heater overnight.

Gansey wanted to drive him home. The idea made Adam feel slightly nauseous.

Gansey was already taking Lynch, though, and he was insistent. _At least to the block_ , he said, then, _at least to the neighbourhood_.

He was the only one on the team responsible (or patient) enough to return the spare key to the PE teacher before leaving the school campus, so he’d given Lynch the keys to the tangerine Camaro in the parking lot.

Adam followed Lynch to the car, already trapped into staying and regretting everything.

‘We _can_ use the lab.’ Lynch admitted, throwing himself into the back of the car. ‘If you’re worried about time.’

Adam still wasn’t sure how to respond. Who had a private laboratory for high school science experiments? And how could _he_ visit Ronan Lynch’s home?

He forced himself to answer. ‘See how it goes tomorrow.’

_He didn’t want to go to Lynch’s house._

‘We’ve got five hours in class before it’s due.’

_Discounting the inevitable waste of fifteen minutes every lesson which was preparing and cleaning, or rendering aid to whoever tried to burn themselves or blow something up._

‘We won’t necessarily have to redo it.’

_Stop talking, Parrish, stop talking._

Replication was one of his favourite parts of the process. Why did Lynch’s plan have to be so unconventionally elaborate?

Lynch had fallen silent. He was lying very still, like he’d fallen asleep. Adam turned in the passenger’s seat to look at him.

‘Tomorrow.’ Lynch acknowledged.

He was even more soaked than Adam, but he didn’t seem to mind making the entire backseat damp.

‘But you’re welcome to it, either way.’

Adam turned back around in his chair, pressed his eyes closed.

He _couldn’t_ go. He wasn’t one of _these_ people.

It was bad enough at school. It would be worse actually going to a house, especially a house that was so refined they had their own private _laboratory_.

‘This weekend?’ He said, too quickly to stop, too loudly to ignore. He turned again. ‘Are you busy?’

There was a minuscule pause before Ronan answered. ‘No.’He hesitated. ‘I have church on Sunday.’

He must’ve noticed Adam’s reaction, or expected it, because his eyes narrowed fractionally.

‘Sorry.’ Adam said automatically. ‘I didn’t- Because your parents-’

‘If you met them you’d understand.’ Lynch mumbled. ‘They’re unexpected.’

A longer pause. Adam wondered desperately when Gansey would be back.

‘What about yours?’ Lynch had thrown an arm across his face, perhaps in order to pretend he was talking to someone else.

‘My-’ _Oh_. Adam answered thoughtlessly, uncomfortably; ‘They’re dead.’

‘Fuck.’ Lynch sat up. He looked horrified, but it was difficult to tell if it was the notion or Adam’s careless tone that had evoked it. ‘I’m sorry.’

He was genuinely remorseful, too. Adam fidgeted.

‘I was very young.’ He explained, shrugging. ‘I don’t remember them.’

He didn’t remember them. He didn’t know if they were even actually dead, but he’d said it enough times that it felt real.

‘I’m sorry.’ Ronan repeated.

The driver’s door opened, and Adam silently thanked Gansey for his timing.

‘Right.’ Gansey climbed into the car. ‘Where to, Adam?’

Adam gave him an address three neighbourhoods over. He’d still be able to catch a bus home, at this point, and if not he’d just take the rooftops.


	7. And lo, some ass got kicked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, everyone. I know that written fighting isn't easy to read, but I just wanna give him some time to play.

Tuesday brought the first biochemistry lab, another hour in close proximity with Parrish.

Screwing around with chemicals was usually Ronan’s favourite part of class, but Parrish’s laser focus was horrifying. He’d suggested that Ronan do the initial experiment, while he observed, so Ronan spent forty-five minutes living the definition of fear while Adam watched his every move.

The mere prospect of him coming to the house on the weekend was making Ronan feel ill, not helped by the vivid memory of Adam’s hands on his shoulders and his hair going dark in the rain. It was too much. It was too close. Ronan should be ten feet away and surreptitiously glancing at the back of Parrish’s head, not crushing down shivers every time Adam reached over him to point something out. Ronan didn’t want to know there was a scar below Adam’s left eye, pale against his skin. He didn’t want to see the elegant hollow of Adam’s cheeks when he stretched forward to examine results, or hear how he murmured ‘hm’ in response to any one of Ronan’s comments without ever actually answering them. He didn’t want to identify the faint smell of him as aftershave mixed with green apples.

It was too _creepy_. There was only so far Ronan could go in thinking about Adam when he didn’t _know_ Adam. The more he learned, and the more he pretended it meant nothing, the worse this was.

Inviting him to the house had been a damn fool mistake. A lapse in judgement. _Insanity_.

Sure, he could blame Gansey for bringing it up, but Ronan never felt obliged to do anything out of politeness. He’d glimpsed the possibility of Adam visiting the Barns, and his stupid, traitorous brain had run with the idea.

It was a terrible, terrible idea.

They had another lab on Thursday. Ronan’s world had devolved from a vast, gratifying expanse of freedom and opportunities to small moments of panic separated by long periods of impatience. He wished he could work every night. He wished he cared about any of his other assignments. He wished Gansey would stop noticing his constant distraction.

There were other classes, where he would encounter Parrish, but they weren’t on the same plane of existence outside biochemistry. Parrish was always too deep in thought to notice him, and Ronan was carefully pretending likewise.

He spent the whole hour on Thursday avoiding any discussion of the plans for their next meeting. He refused to bring it up first. He refused to chase the itching worry at the edges of his thoughts that Parrish might change his mind and refuse to come. 

Adam was concentrating on cleaning the bench top, frowning, and the question seemed like an afterthought. ‘Are you… still free, on the weekend?’

Ronan stopped himself from firing off an answer, fixed his attention on the equipment he was replacing in drawers and on shelves.

‘Uh.’ He could still go out on Friday evening. The Widower was possibly the only alternative to losing his mind. He could focus on something else for a night, and he’d be tired enough on Saturday to care just a fraction less about Adam goddamn Parrish in his goddamn house.

And there was the thief, to check around on. Even though Niall hadn’t reported any more encounters, Ronan wasn’t convinced he wouldn’t hunt the cat down, or even that he hadn’t already found him.

‘I’m free.’ He answered, finally. The clock above the whiteboard claimed there were only two minutes left in the period. He didn’t know if he wanted it to end, or if that was the worst part. ‘Where do you want me to pick you up?’

Pick him up? _Pick him up?_ Please God, send help.

Adam shook his head. ‘I’ll just catch the bus. Where do you live?’

‘There’s no bus.’ Ronan admitted. ‘We live out of town.’

‘Oh.’ Adam stopped scrubbing the bench, looked up. ‘I can cycle from the nearest train station.’

Ronan didn’t know he _cycled_. The thought was alarming.

He wrote the address of the Barns on a piece of paper and tore it out of his notebook. He rarely used it for taking notes, so the majority of the book was empty, save a few doodles and the occasional exchange of notes between him and Gansey.

Parrish had finished cleaning, and dried his hands. He accepted the paper and Ronan watched his eyebrows dip quizzically. ‘You really live out of town.’

‘I can pick you up.’ Ronan repeated, too rapidly. He fought down a blush, and wondered if anyone else in the class had noticed he was a twitchy mess today.

It took a moment for Parrish to answer, but he was obviously reluctant to yield. ‘I can make it.’

Ronan shrugged. Something else was crawling to the forefront of his awareness, and he could already sense it was awful.

 _No_. He couldn’t do it. He _wouldn’t_ do it.

He took the paper from Adam’s hand, balanced it on the side of his book. His fingers threatened to wobble. Was this what normal people felt during life-threatening situations?

‘Here.’ His phone number, hastily scrawled under the address. ‘If you get abducted by farmers or something.’

Adam analysed the addition, and smiled, actually _smiled_. ‘Smart. Farmers can be a real menace.’

‘Can’t trust ‘em.’ This felt like death. Ronan had been murdered by a careless smirk.

The bell rang and Parrish turned away. Ronan scrambled for his bag. He needed _out_.

 

 

 

Aurora let him work Friday night. She was thrilled that he’d invited his biochemistry partner to the house. Ronan couldn’t tell if she could sense his suppressed anticipation, or if she was just trying to be supportive.

It was date night, too. They’d missed out the previous week because of Gansey’s rowing match.

He started far from what he’d vaguely decided was the cat’s neighbourhood, downtown near the old Golden Age hotel. It wasn’t a pleasant place, but that was the direction Niall had said he’d gone after their scuffle, and that was where he’d interrupted Ronan’s search.

There were plenty of criminals living down that way, but very little actual crime, so Ronan’s familiarity with the area was limited. That, and the prevalence of streetwalkers made Ronan wary of interfering. Unless there was actual violence, vigilantes simply weren’t needed, and they definitely weren’t _wanted_.

Other parts of downtown attracted worse - dealers and gangs, meth labs and butchers - and they never stopped scrapping amongst themselves. Still, midtown was the opportune place to intervene in armed violence towards civilians. People had enough money on them to make robbery worthwhile, and they were usually undeserving victims.

Two figures had pinned a jogger on a railway overpass to obtain his wallet and keys, and Ronan dangled them off the side of the bridge, neatly bound together.

He found a man attempting to assault a woman outside a bar, and received an unexpectedly appreciative hug from her after he dropkicked the guy into a dumpster.

There was a squad of police cars pursuing a stolen vehicle on the highway, and Ronan dealt with the driver and decorously parked the car before he split.

Nothing big. Nothing serious. He kept his sphere small, but productive.

He wasn’t trying to get on the cat’s radar, but if he hadn’t been as quiet as usual… so be it.

There was someone selling E in the back alley of a nightclub, and Ronan was contemplating how best to dispatch them from the rooftop when something moved behind him.

He reacted instinctively, predicting the motion, and landed a perfect shot to the intruder’s chest. Admittedly, the figure hadn’t been moving fast. Or attempting to evade the web at all.

‘You know- ’ The thief prodded the fine, translucent fibres curiously. ‘- your greetings aren’t all that friendly.’

Ronan yanked the web, dragging the cat forward several feet. ‘It’s webs or punching, your pick.’

‘With options like that, how could I choose just one?’ He severed the web with one finger. Ronan wondered what he’d found to make those intriguingly sharp claws.

He was still a good dozen feet away, but apparently unbothered enough by Ronan’s presence to set about prying the rest of the fibres off his jacket. There was a solid bass line ebbing up through the roof surface, actual music occasionally escaping when someone pushed open the back door.

‘What are you doing here?’ Ronan turned away, feigning continued interest in the actions of the drug dealer in the alley. ‘White Russian night at Pablo?’

‘Business-’ His voice was closer than Ronan had expected, still approaching. Was this a trap? ‘- before pleasure.’

He leaned past Ronan’s shoulder, glancing down at the target below. Ronan looked too, held his tongue. He didn’t know this game. He still didn’t understand what this person _was_.

‘I have an offering.’

‘If it’s a dead mouse, feel free to keep it.’

The thief withdrew from the edge, put some distance between them. Ronan breathed out.

‘Jovo Maljević.’ The thief said, slowly.

_An offering._

Ronan didn’t answer, didn’t move. He needed to be careful, Jesus, he needed to be careful. There was still no solid reason to trust this guy, and he could be anyone.

But Maljević…

‘I know where he is.’ The cat continued, barely audible over the hum of noise from the club. ‘Where to find him. How to find him.’

‘What makes you think I want to know?’

‘Everyone wants to know.’

He wasn’t wrong.

‘Why me?’

If Ronan got Maljević - if the _Widower_ got Maljević - he would be revered across the city, the _country_. Niall would be ecstatic.

‘I have a debt.’ The cat said, calmly. ‘And you have a reputation for getting results.’

What did the cat expect Ronan to do? Kill Maljević? Injure him?

He’d been arrested before, but never convicted. The law couldn’t corner someone like him. Ronan could.

‘Show me.’

 

 

 

It wasn’t even downtown. It was some unassuming and generically placid old bar wedged between an engineering consultancy firm and an internet marketing service in the business district.

The cat didn’t take him close, but he was thorough. There were windows at the front and back, three storeys, a basement with vehicle access. The bar was functional, they ran clean and stolen liquor year-round. Sometimes they kept guns in the basement, sometimes people.

This year, this _week_ … it was guns.

Ronan’s plan was a preliminary sketch, and that was putting it mildly. It consisted primarily of _1) break in_ and _2) improvise_ , with a couple notes of _3) don’t get shot_ and _4) emerge triumphant_.

They were both crouched on a much higher roof a block away, leaning over the edge for the best view.

‘He has a whole crew in there.’ The cat adjusted his gloves, delicately, hands dangling into empty air. ‘Why don’t you come back with your friend?’

‘You worried about me?’ Ronan teased, marginally disappointed that the mask concealed his smirk.

‘Only about you tripping over your own ego.’ The cat retorted smartly.

‘Are any of them like you?’

There was a pause, and the cat glanced across at him, blinking. ‘No.’

Ronan stood up, stretching. ‘Then I guess I’ll be fine.’

Another pause. The cat seemed to be considering this. Finally, he stood, facing Ronan.

‘Good luck, spider.’ His teeth flashed, as sharp as Ronan remembered. ‘Watch out for bug spray.’

‘Obliged, whiskers. Go get yourself a little fishy treat.’

He stepped off the edge of the roof.

 

 

 

There were bars on the upstairs windows. Ronan used the front door.

He’d stuck his head into the bee’s nest, and the reaction was not unexpected.

There were two seated at a table on the left, both preparing to draw - a threat, not an intention - and Ronan webbed one and smacked his head into the table.

They wouldn’t fire. Their cover would be blown, and a firefight in an enclosed space like this would be ugly.

The second one was upright and lunging. Ronan spun low, knocked out his legs, tossed him into the door and webbed him there, blocking off the exit. He’d have to be quick… they’d be disinclined to run, but he wanted to make sure nobody was able to slip away.

The bar was also on the left, taking up the length of the room down to a door against the back wall. The barman had conjured a shotgun, and Ronan ignored it, but the closest occupant of the bar stools had pulled a knife.

He advanced (they were quick - there were two at a table mid-room who had jumped up to join the fray, another two beyond that, and archways into the adjacent billiards room revealed more opponents wielding cue sticks and either knives or liquor bottles) and Ronan caught his knife-wrist, twisted it out, ducked under the arm and jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow while webbing the bartender in the face.

The man next to him dropped the knife, but tried for a right hook, snatched easily midair and used as leverage to lift and fling him into the arms of his oncoming fellows.

There was someone coming through an archway with an empty (possibly tequila) bottle. Ronan webbed his ankle to the top of the archway, flipping him upside down.

The stairs were at the back of the room, and there were faces materialising over the edge of the second-floor balcony, peering into the fight below. Ronan identified an easy method of attack. Three were closing in on him, he dropped low, zigzagging between them with a couple sneaky punches to the knees and guts, and grabbed the back of someone’s jacket to toss him rather theatrically into the air and web him to dangle, wriggling, from the ceiling. Someone was swinging a loaded M16. Ronan grabbed it, and it went off, exploding a bottle off the shelves behind the bar.

They weren’t all that dangerous, without gunfire, but the game had changed. Ronan took to the air, launching himself off a guy’s shoulder and webbing the edge of the balcony to swing feet first into a different guy’s chest. He backflipped, let the momentum carry him onto one of the tables, and ducked, swinging a kick into a third person’s jaw. He heard another shot, flipped sideways, landed close to the ground. There was a third - revolver - and he heard the seat of a nearby chair splinter in response.

It was rapidly devolving into chaos. The close combatants were withdrawing again, trying to clear a path for a clean shot. Ronan kept moving. Someone fired from upstairs, and the bullet sank into the wooden floor.

He’d taken at least eight down, but there were countless others. He wouldn’t tire, but he wasn’t in control.

He switched to webs. Webbed a chair into one person’s head. Webbed a table into two people, but they set about extracting themselves. He webbed someone’s crotch to the ceiling, but had to swing himself back across the room in order to kick the gun out of the man’s grip.

He jumped to the second storey, moving ceaselessly to evade bullets and other projectiles. The balcony was an extension of the bar, three strips of flooring with dubious wooden barriers so occupants overhead could stare down at the tables below. Two men had been playing cards; Ronan rolled one of them over the barrier with a web to the seat of his pants, and sternly kicked the other in the stomach.

A woman burst through a doorway across the landing from him, and he leapt over a table, narrowly avoiding the shotgun blast that riddled its surface with holes.

He jumped off the balcony, landed deftly in the middle of the room below, and immediately took a cue stick to the side of the head.

The force couldn’t have moved him much, but the impact to his ear was jarring, and it took him a moment to recover his balance.

He rolled sideways to escape any further damage, catching sight of the broken wooden pole raised for a second blow. As the stick started to swing, something streaked over Ronan’s head, landed heavily on the attacker and dropped him to the floor.

The cat.

Ronan pushed to his feet, momentarily distracted. The thief was in motion, seizing the front of the next man’s jacket just to drop backwards and roll, flinging him ass over ankles across the room. Someone was raising a gun on the balcony - Ronan webbed him vacantly and pulled him down. The cat was nearing his third victim, fast and flawless, dodging a hasty burst of bullets and catching his prey around the neck with one leg to sling him lazily and forcefully into the side of the bar. He stepped onto the bar-top, crouched, and calmly surveyed the carnage.

The room suddenly seemed peaceful, save some groaning and the sound of running footsteps from above. The door to the back room, behind the stairs, hung open… the thief’s point of ingress.

Ronan suddenly couldn’t remember why he was here.

‘Fear of missing out?’ He asked, webbing a few recovering individuals to the floor.

The cat examined his claws idly. ‘Maybe I was missing you.’

Ronan didn’t know how to respond. ‘I… have to…’

What was he doing? Right. The crime-fighting thing.

‘I blocked the roller door.’ The thief stood up, walked along the length of the bar. ‘I thought your performance could use a captive audience.’

‘That’s so…’ Ronan walked in parallel, towards the staircase. ‘… considerate.’

There were people upstairs. Opponents. Threats.

There had to be people downstairs, too.

Niall’s approach would have been to secure them all and wait for the police to get called in - but the police were probably already coming. This place had been lit up like early Christmas. Ronan had to hurry.

There were four people left upstairs. One was the woman with the shotgun, and the other three had holed up in barricade positions in a makeshift bedroom. They were surprisingly quick work, in comparison to the preceding frantic conflict.

The back room was full of stock, crates of bottles, kegs of beer. One door, on the right, hung open, and there were two prone figures in the hall beyond it and a further door to the back alley. A second door led to a longer corridor, adjoined by an office on one side and a loading bay on the other.

The cat hadn’t so much ‘blocked the roller door’ as he had ‘driven something into it’. The entire thing was formidably dented, and immobile.

There was another motionless body on the floor of the office. Ronan found the cat inside, sitting on the edge of the desk with his head tipped to one side. He’d pushed the desk over, and blocked the hatch leading to the basement.

Ronan stared at him… strangely real under the stark fluorescent lights. His eyes were still round, gold, split with narrow pupils. His teeth were small blades. It seemed wildly inappropriate to find him anything but creepy, but he _wasn’t_. He just seemed… natural.

‘Do you mind?’ Ronan gestured to the hatch. The cat didn’t move.

‘I believe they’re expecting you.’ He observed instead.

Weapons. Right. And Ronan would be bottlenecked on the staircase. But he couldn’t leave the cops to take the risk, and he didn’t even know if he had Maljević.

 _Think, think._ He wondered what time it was. He wondered if the cops were already here.

‘Six inches.’ Ronan said sharply.

‘I’m sorry?’ The cat stilled, even his impatient claws hesitating on the desk.

Ronan turned his back on the cat, dug in his webshooters for a spare cartridge.

‘Six inches gap.’ Ronan gestured, behind himself, to the hatch. ‘One second.’

There was a roll of paper towel on top of a water cooler across the room. Ronan snatched it, unravelled several pieces, and bundled the cartridge into the centre.

‘What are you doing?’ The cat seemed curious, despite himself. He didn’t quite leave his seat, even when Ronan came back and shoved the desk back several paces with him still sitting on top. ‘Spidey?’

Ronan climbed onto the desk, ignoring the alarming proximity of the thief’s head to his thigh, and reached up to the light.

Perhaps he’d understood the plan… perhaps he was just curious… either way, the cat scooted off the desk and prepared to lift the hatch.

‘Ready?’ Ronan’s hand was poised next to the light bulb.

‘Always.’

‘ _Now_.’ He twisted the bulb out, ignoring the heat blossoming even through his glove, and shoved it into the bundle of paper towel.

The thief lifted the hatch - a full two feet, which was actually a relief - and Ronan dropped to the floor, shoved his arm inside and threw the makeshift bomb.

There was the instant _bang!_ of gunfire and Ronan flinched out of the way as the cat shoved the hatch back down. A second later there was more, two, three overlapping shots, and then silence.

The cat was crouched so close Ronan could hear him breathing. ‘Did it work?’

‘I don’t know.’ Ronan nudged him out of the way with an elbow. ‘Let me see.’

In the room below, stacks of metal crates occupied a large, concrete surfaced bunker. Several had been opened, and the contents seized in last-minute desperation. There were seven figures, occupants, and their seven (or more) chosen weapons.

And the whole scene was blanketed in a tangled net of web so chaotic not a goddamn one of them could move. 

Ronan withdrew his head, grinning. The thief couldn’t see his victorious expression, but he poked his head in for a look anyway.

‘That-’ The cat closed the hatch, turned a bright-eyed gaze on Ronan. ‘- was brilliant.’

Ronan gave a miniature bow, with a flourish. ‘I aim to please.’

The cat stood up, pulling Ronan with him. ‘And I will never deny that you deliver.’


	8. Escape to the (clueless) Country

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long...

They watched the raid from the vantage point of the original rooftop.

The Widower was sitting on the very edge, leaning forwards. It wouldn’t take more than a nudge to tip him off, but he’d presumably find it easy to swing to safety. Adam couldn’t decide if he envied that freedom of movement or resented it.

His spatial awareness was exceptional, but so was Adam’s. His speed and strength, both excellent, but Adam hardly felt outmatched. His ingenuity was… unexpected.

But Adam had never been a fighter.

He’d been in scuffles, especially when he was younger, but he’d quickly learned to avoid conflict altogether. Inhuman strength hadn’t made him invincible, and staying in the shadows appealed to his nature.

It was genuinely a shock, to find the young Widower almost untouched in the middle of the chaos he had created. It was astonishing to watch him fight, as effortless and natural as Adam found climbing. He would easily have incapacitated everyone in the building regardless of Adam’s help.

Fighting him one-on-one, Adam had been concentrating on staying alive, but spectating the Widower in combat was different. He was faster, against human opponents, acclimatised to the impact of his strikes and to the effort necessary for evading their attacks. He was far less lethal than Adam had imagined, and far more efficient. All of Maljević’s people had been contained, and the Widower was never even out of breath.

It was a double victory. Maljević’s grime had been encroaching on Wyvern territory for weeks, and the Widower seemed pleased with the success of his mission.

‘How long will it take to cut them out?’ The basement had been so dense with webs that Adam had barely been able to see their captives.

‘Hours, probably.’ The Widower responded, still perilously close to the edge. ‘Without blades like yours.’

Adam turned his hands, examining the claws affectionately. He rarely thought of them as blades, but he liked the sound of it.

He _had_ owed the Widower, but he was curious. How was this being explained to the Widower’s partner? He’d lost a thief, and then caught and released him, and now they were exchanging favours… if that was the word for it.

Did the other Widower even know about him? Except, obviously, as a passing combatant on a busy night.

Was the cat a secret? Or an object of entertainment?

‘You’ll get a medal for this.’

The Widower snickered, low and odd through the mask. ‘The mayor calls me an anarchist.’

‘How quaint.’ Adam frowned. ‘And semantically incorrect.’

He had asked the Wyverns about the Widower. Most of them answered with amusement. They’d known it was two people, even though the duo rarely came so far downtown.

Older and younger, apparently. The elder one was charming, according to multiple reports, but he didn’t tend to misbehave. The younger kept to himself, mostly, though he’d inadvertently interrupted a couple of incidents he’d obviously mistaken for assaults.

Father and son, Bella had stated unequivocally.

Adam considered the possibility with amazement. It was a logical conclusion, but the implications of such genetic potential were incredible.

A mutation? Or something alien?

And what did that make him?

 

 

 

The address Ronan Lynch had given him was in the middle of farming country, but Adam wasn’t expecting corn fields and cattle. A mansion, maybe. Courtyards and fountains. A spire.

He wasn’t ready to accept the possibility that the Lynch family lived on a farm, but at this point, he didn’t have many alternate theories. The gate was wooden, slightly wonky, and already open. The drive was two gravel ruts twisting away down the hill, lined with fruit trees.

His most credible hypothesis was that Ronan had lied, given him a random address… but Ronan actually didn’t seem like that much of an asshole.

Adam took his bike down the hill, examining the sloping pastures either side of the drive with baffled suspicion. There _were_ cows, though not many. The occasional sheep, and even a couple fairly dilapidated barns. It was a long driveway, and by the time Adam could see the house the road was completely out of sight.

It was definitely a farm.

A big farm, but still a farm. There was a large circle of gravel out the front, mossy wooden fences, the sound of chickens drifting through the air. The building was mostly wood, latticed windows, a covered porch decorated with chairs and lights and a swing. It was beautiful, mellow, the complete opposite of what he’d anticipated.

Adam leaned his bike on the side of the porch, tentatively, and climbed the steps. There was muffled noise from inside… probably a television. Adam knocked on the door, shifting his bag strap awkwardly.

He didn’t know what to expect anymore.

The door swung open, and Adam was greeted with an exclamation and startling warmth. ‘Adam! What are you doing here?’

Matthew Lynch was nearly as tall as him, but broader, softer, and unfailingly friendly. He was in Adam’s tech labs, most afternoons, constructing a prototype drone he’d enthusiastically shown to everyone. Despite his differences from Ronan, they bore an unmistakable family resemblance, to the degree that Adam momentarily thought Ronan had shrunk and gone blonde.

Matthew didn’t wait for an answer before waving him eagerly across the threshold. ‘We were watching a movie, but we can restart it.’

They were standing in a hallway, wide and comfortable, and Adam looked hesitantly down at his shoes on the rug.

Ronan materialised in the nearest doorway. ‘Parrish.’

He looked strange, against a backdrop of domestic serenity. The sofa behind him was draped with blankets and cushions, and there was a mantle over the fireplace covered in photo frames.

‘You’re his lab partner?’ Matthew asked curiously. ‘Weird. D’you want a sandwich?’

‘Uh.’

Ronan was inspecting him, and Adam was sharply aware of the line of sweat across his shoulder blades, heat in his face. Even the driveway had been longer than he’d expected, and he was paying the price.

‘Come get a drink.’ Ronan said abruptly.

The kitchen was just as homely. Matthew pointed him to a chair at the counter while eagerly providing a glass of cold soda. Ronan had apparently been delegated the task of building three Scooby-Doo-esque sandwiches, one of which Adam received with considerable surprise.

He was hungry, though, and he appreciated a moment to recover his composure.

There was tomato chutney, definitely, pickles, cheese, fried egg, bacon, a touch of mustard, onion, and lettuce, but the Lynch brothers consumed the sandwiches within minutes. It was barely past nine in the morning, and they were already eating like starving animals.

It _was_ a damn good sandwich.

Adam wasn’t familiar with sibling dynamics, but Ronan and Matthew seemed remarkably companionable. It made a certain kind of sense, because Matthew was as widely known and well-liked as Gansey. Maybe Lynch required that kind of charisma to find someone tolerable.

Adam would never be able to offer anything like it. He had a temporary pass into Lynch’s good graces, and that was it.

‘I’ll show you the lab.’ Ronan announced, clearing Adam’s plate.

 

 

The laboratory was in a converted barn beyond the house, windowless, and sealed with a metal door.

Adam’s thieving instincts were tingling immediately. There were either things of significant value or considerable danger behind security like that, probably both.

Ronan had the passcode for the door, and keys for the locked cabinets inside. Adam watched him assemble the equipment they needed with thoughtless familiarity, and felt a twinge of envy. The room was spacious, sparsely decorated, the benches were scrubbed down and cleared, immaculate. There were sinks against one wall, storage cabinets against the other. There were samples of every chemical Adam could have found in the lab at school, plus a half dozen others he’d never handled in person.

Lynch’s parents were serious scientists. Of course, they’d have to be, to wind up with money like this… but they must truly love their work.

‘Your parents don’t mind us using this?’ Adam asked, letting his gaze drag reverently across a centrifuge. Ronan, obviously not, because he was their son. A prodigy. But Adam was an outsider, a teenager, an unknown quantity. He was laying eyes on equipment he knew the black market would take for thousands of dollars. Items he would actually steal for himself, if it wasn’t so impractical.

Ronan shrugged. ‘I could throw a party in here and they wouldn’t mind.’

Adam frowned, unconvinced, but Ronan had already moved on.

There was something different about him, that Adam couldn’t isolate. It was unsettling. Either his focus, or his volume, or his… Adam didn’t know. He seemed more intense than usual.

The first stage of the experiment was straightforward, and easily set up. Ronan arranged it all and stepped away. ‘You do it.’

Adam obliged, measuring quantities, pouring, mixing carefully, applying heat. Falling at the first hurdle would be embarrassing, but he wondered if he was missing a demonstration of Lynch’s abilities during the initial attempt. Was this the way to discover Ronan’s secret for success? Or was it just natural skill, as Adam had assumed?

Ronan watched him, unexpectedly closely. He didn’t fidget or interrupt, he just observed, leaning against one of the benches on the opposite wall. Possibly he distrusted Adam’s precision or ability, possibly he just distrusted Adam, in his house and near his parent’s possessions.

Maybe he’d discovered Adam’s notable lack of money, and suspected he was a thief… which, in fairness, he was.

Adam wasn’t foolish enough to steal from anyone he talked to or worked with at school, and he never stole from anyone who trusted him. Whether Ronan actually trusted him was questionable… but he was here, invited into the Lynch house. That was more than enough reason not to cross him.

 

 

They took a break for lunch, having made substantial progress. Adam had moved onto the second stage, and the method had proved flawed, so they’d worked reparations into the procedure.

Matthew was in the dining room, blatantly ignoring a page of maths homework while staring dreamily out the window, until Ronan stirred him with a nudge.

‘Did you do it?’ He inspected them for signs of explosions or scarring, and yawned upon finding nothing.

‘How long ago did you start this?’ Ronan countered, leaning on the table. ‘You’ve done two questions.’ He paused, corrected himself. ’One and a half.’

‘Yep.’ Matthew smiled. ‘Second one’s a bastard.’

From the next room, a woman’s voice scolded; ‘ _Matthew_.’

‘Sorry Mom.’ Matthew smiled sheepishly.

Adam followed Ronan into the kitchen, curious in spite of himself. Their mother was striking, to say the least. She was tall too, and beautiful. Her hair was long, very blonde, and loose over her shoulders and back in curly ribbons.

She tipped her head to see past Ronan as they walked in, and smiled at him. ‘You must be Ronan’s lab partner. I’m Aurora.’

‘Adam.’ He took the hand she offered, applying as little pressure he could in acknowledgement. She looked like something from a pre-Raphaelite portrait, ethereal and fragile. ‘Nice to meet you.’

He didn’t see Ronan’s reaction, if there even was one, but he still felt uncomfortable between the two of them. He didn’t know what to say, to someone’s mother, and Ronan hardly seem fond of small talk.

‘Honey sesame chicken for lunch.’ She explained, turning back to a cutting board covered in green beans and avocados. ‘Go help your brother with his homework.’

Lunch was a surprisingly sociable experience. Aurora brought food and drinks and settled into the chair next to Adam’s, smiling forgivingly across the table at her bickering children.

Matthew evidently had no interest in mathematics, and it took Ronan’s dedicated repetition of questions and formulas to extract any answers from him. Adam had to fight the urge to jump in and offer solutions while Matthew chewed and hummed thoughtfully through his meal, just to relieve Ronan’s frustrated efforts.

Aurora talked to Adam about the biochemistry project, even though she obviously knew exactly what they were doing. She asked him about what else he studied, and if he enjoyed it. She was thrilled to discover that he was in tech lab, and inquired directly about what he’d decided to build.

Did he know Gansey? _Yes_. Wasn’t he a funny marvel of a boy? _Definitely_.

‘Rowers are always a bit weird.’ Matthew interjected, wilfully ignoring Ronan’s attempt to make him answer question nine.

‘Gansey isn’t weird.’ Ronan said firmly. ‘Can you identify the height of the building using its shadow and the angle of the sun?’

‘Course he’s weird.’ Matthew started laughing. ‘He’s friends with _you_.’

Ronan poked him in the ribs with a pen.

‘Gansey’s very charming.’ Aurora concluded amicably. ‘Did you say you were taking philosophy and ethics?’

There was something undefinably pleasant about the three of them together, like they were characters in a play about family, nailing their parts. Adam felt absurdly out of place… and reluctantly envious of their easy intimacy.

He was startled by Ronan’s lack of self-consciousness. Lynch didn’t try to disguise his affection for his brother, or his respect for his mother, both of which would have been vehemently avoided by other Aglionby boys under the attention of a classmate.

The obvious explanation was that Lynch didn’t care about Adam’s opinion, because why would he? He had a reputation for disinterest, it clearly just didn’t extend to his family.

‘Ronan.’ Aurora prompted gently, and without complaint Lynch gathered the empty bowls and departed for the kitchen. Before following him, she added kindly to Matthew; ‘Maybe you could ask Adam about your questions.’

What little interest Matthew had in his homework had long vanished. He leaned forward instead. ‘When you’re done with the chemistry thing you should see the battery pack I put on the drone. Biggest I could find.’ He demonstrated this by mimicking the shape of a large brick with his hands.

‘Sure.’ Adam suppressed the urge to check his watch. He knew when the last train ran back to the city, but it was at least forty minutes to cycle to the station, and half an hour home at the other end. If Ronan wanted to run the first couple of stages again Adam probably wouldn’t be home before dark.

It was worth it, even if cycling back to Wyvern at night was reckless.

Ronan returned, nodded briskly to Adam, and continued into the hall without pausing to wait for him.

 

Their second attempt was successful, probably owing in large part to Ronan’s intervention. His hands weren’t as steady as Adam’s, for some reason, but he had an eye for subtle changes in the mixture.

Observing, however, gave Adam the opportunity to pinpoint exactly what was different about him. Lynch wasn’t just acknowledging Adam’s presence, as indifferently as ever, he was _really_ watching him, as though he was looking for or noticing something in particular.

It could have been suspicion.

It could have been curiosity.

Either way, Adam survived by avoiding close scrutiny, and the sensation of being _seen_ unnerved him.

The door beeped open halfway through cleaning up, and Matthew’s head popped inside. ‘You done? The girls are asking for you.’

Ronan grunted, and Matthew grinned at Adam before withdrawing his head.

 _The girls were asking for Ronan._ Adam took a good several minutes trying to puzzle out exactly what that meant, before Ronan finished locking the cabinets.

‘It’s late.’ He frowned past Adam’s shoulder, dark eyebrows furrowed in thought. ‘I can drive you to the train station now if you want, or-’

The door beeped again, and Ronan fell silent.

Aurora appeared in the doorway, with all of Matthew’s radiance but some additional gracefulness. ‘Are you staying for dinner, Adam? We’re doing a special roast.’

The closest thing Adam had ever had to a roast was grey sliced meat in the cafeteria.

‘I should… head back.’ He gestured vaguely. The offer of the car ride would cut a good twenty minutes off his overall trip, but if they didn’t leave soon he’d miss the last train. Lynch might mind giving him a lift, though, given that the girls were apparently waiting.

‘You should stay.’ Aurora protested gently. ‘I don’t like the idea of you catching a train in the dark.’

‘I couldn’t impose.’ He couldn’t stay. He couldn’t even believe he was _here_.

It was easier than going home, but he barely knew Ronan. The idea of suddenly showing up at his family dinner seemed outrageous, and potentially unforgivable.

‘It’s no imposition.’ Aurora’s giggle was startled, like the suggestion itself had stunned her. ‘Ronan.’

Adam glanced at his classmate cautiously. The slightest warning from Lynch would answer the question for him, but Ronan was just leaning back, hands curled round the edge of the table.

‘It’s no problem.’ His voice was even, unconcerned.

Adam pressed his palms to the sides of his jeans, and bowed his head to Aurora awkwardly. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘Wonderful.’ She was still beaming when he lifted his head. ‘I feel much better about you staying.’

Adam waited a few moments after she left, trying to gauge if Ronan’s mood changed perceptibly, but he didn’t seem irritated. Distracted, mostly.

‘I have to…’ He shrugged as they left the lab. ‘The animals need feeding.’

‘Oh.’ Adam blinked upwards, impressed by the orange-red sky and the light retreating over the hills. _Female_ animals?

He followed Ronan anyway, unable to invite himself into the house alone, and they encountered Matthew in another detached barn, filling a clunking pail with grain.

‘Yo.’ He waved the pail happily. ‘Are you going to see the girls?’

‘Cows.’ Ronan translated swiftly.

‘Oh, can I come?’ Matthew bobbed on his feet. ‘I’ll introduce him.’

Matthew led the way to the cows, Adam wary behind him, and Ronan delayed by the weight of two buckets of… cow food. It smelled like hay, but Adam didn’t know what it was.

He hesitated at the fence, where a significant number of large bovine shapes were already crowding the gate, impatient for food.

Ronan passed him, lowered the buckets, hurdled the fence and shoved the cows away with affectionate rudeness. ‘Get out the way, shithead. You too. Fuck off, dummy. It’s always the damn trough.’

They were shockingly compliant, but Adam still lingered on the other side of the gate until Matthew noticed his absence.

‘Come over.’ He instructed brightly.

Adam squinted uncertainly through the dusky gloom. ‘Are they hostile?’

He meant; _around food, around strangers, in the dark, when they’re startled, when they’re hungry, when I’m near them_ , but the apparent absurdity of his question made both Lynch brothers stop and stare at him.

Ronan was the first to break. He sniggered; ‘Hostile?’

Matthew’s teeth glinted. ‘They’re _cows_.’

_‘Hostile?’_

Adam blushed, grateful for the cover of imminent darkness. ‘I mean-’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Ronan hauled the buckets over the fence, still elbowing curious cows away. ’It’s fine. Matthew can wrestle a calf to the ground in under a minute.’

Halfway over the fence, Adam still shot him a doubtful look.

Surely these weren’t calves. They were far too big.

Matthew began the introductions, but thankfully Ronan had already drawn them away to a large feeding trough a good ten feet from the fence, and Adam remained at a comfortable distance until most of the food was gone. A particularly friendly cow pursued them afterwards, perusing Ronan’s empty buckets, his hands, his boots and pockets before investigating Matthew and eventually Adam.

‘That’s Chani.’ Matthew reiterated. ‘Ronan spoils her.’

‘I don’t.’

‘He had to bottle-feed her though, so…’ Matthew shrugged meaningfully, as if to say ‘ _it couldn’t be helped.’_

Adam was spared the need to respond by the hot, dry press of the cow’s tongue against his hand. He scratched Chani’s head dutifully and she meandered away.

It was dark by the time they’d climbed back over the fence. Ronan reminded Matthew about the chickens, and helpfully led Adam back to the house.

Aurora passed them in the living room, and delicately asked Ronan; ‘Use the blue sheets, won’t you? The others haven’t been washed since Gansey stayed. And grab a towel for Adam, in case he doesn’t like cow smell as much as the rest of us.’

Her laughter was musical. Adam barely noticed that Ronan had halted awkwardly until he ran into him.

‘Uh-’ Lynch raised a hand, vacantly, staring across the room. ‘Gansey… uh, sleeps on my floor. You can use the spare bedroom, if you like.’

Adam wasn’t sure which direction to lean in to avoid Ronan’s obvious discomfort, and settled for shrugging rapidly. ‘That’s fine. I don’t mind the floor. Whatever’s easy.’

Lynch didn’t answer, or move, for a solid four seconds, and then he was awake, again, his misgivings obviously suppressed.

 

The brothers had a separate bathroom to their parents, but the water pressure was incredible and the temperature was excellent. Adam dwelled under the water for longer than necessary, wondering how the Lynch family had come to be like this. All of them, to Adam’s knowledge, brilliant in some way or several. The idyllic, gentle privacy of the farm, but the expensive, impressive modernity of the laboratory. Their genuine warmth towards one another. Their _contentment_.

No wonder Ronan didn’t give a damn about anyone else. He liked his family. He liked his home. He wasn’t trying to escape.

He helped his brother with homework, told his mother about his school projects, bottle-fed baby animals. Dammit, he was _nice_. He just didn’t splash it around like it was big news.

 

 

When Adam left the bathroom, his towel carefully hung up with the other two on the back of the door, he visited Ronan’s room before going downstairs.

It was smaller than he’d expected. A single bed, with a mattress pulled out from underneath, and made up, now, by Ronan. Two bookcases, one for books and the other for things, toys and objects and unidentifiable items. A desk, with notebooks and texts and mess. Photographs, mostly stuck to the walls, which Adam took the risk of peering at more closely now he was alone. Many of them were family, Ronan and Matthew and Aurora, with the addition of an older boy (Declan, who Adam recognised faintly from Aglionby) and a man, so similar to Ronan that Adam had to squint occasionally to identify which was which. Their father.

Ronan, in a few years, but unshaven, with longer hair.

There were pictures of the boys with pets, cows, chickens, ducks, a goat, stretching back to when they were children. There were more recent pictures of Ronan with Gansey - one after a rowing tournament, Gansey lifting the medal in one hand, his other arm around Ronan’s shoulders, both smiling, and the hazy colours of the rest of the team in the distant background - or Gansey with the whole family, or Gansey with animals.

They were close… They were so close. Adam wondered what that felt like.

He had the Wyverns, of course, but to them he’d always be male, and always an outsider.

He left the room, quietly shutting the door, and ventured downstairs.

 

 

There was more noise in the dining room than he’d expected, an unfamiliar voice. He was as fascinated by the thought of meeting Ronan’s father as he had been by meeting Aurora. Their remarkable intelligence, and their talented progeny, predisposed him towards awe.

Aurora caught him in the hall; ‘Is the bed alright? Was the water hot enough?’ She seemed joyful about the chance to check, as if sympathetically resolving some dissatisfaction he had would only improve her mood.

Ronan was in the doorway behind her, in time to hear her kindly offer; ‘Do you want to call your parents before dinner, to make sure they know you’re okay?’

‘ _Mom_.’ Ronan’s expression was the epitome of distress. She looked around at him innocently, and moved on with mild confusion.

‘Ronan can get you whatever you need.’ She smiled and glided into the dining room, unfazed.

‘Sorry.’ Ronan still looked stricken.

‘It’s fine.’ Adam shrugged. ‘Really.’

It made good sense that Lynch would find his family-less existence so dire.

‘If there’s someone you want to call -’ Ronan gestured down the hall, to a landline. Adam stared. He hadn’t seen one for years.

‘Actually.’ He frowned, tried to recall exactly what he’d said to Eve. She might be concerned, if he didn’t show up. She probably thought he was trying to come home at night and if he didn’t show would assume he was dead. ‘If you don’t mind.’

 

He barely remembered her number… the perils of programmed contacts, but eventually he placed the call. Ronan was waiting down the hall, and Adam suspected he was preventing his family members from interrupting from the dining room or the kitchen.

‘Hello.’ Her voice was cool, lovely. Of course she wouldn’t recognise the number.

‘Hey, Eve, It’s me.’

‘Is everything alright?’ Automatic suspicion. Whether she suspected a threat to his personal safety, or his potential arrest, Adam didn’t know. ‘Are you in trouble?’

‘No, no.’ It felt strange, holding a blocky phone to his head. He felt like he was in a Hitchcock film, whispering secrets into the receiver. Ronan’s presence didn’t help. ‘I just wanted to tell you I’m not coming home tonight.’

‘Oh.’ She paused. Adam heard her smile, steeled himself. ‘Oh? Did you meet someone?’

She was as mocking as she was curious, but Adam still blushed instinctively.

‘I’m staying with someone from school.’ He explained, half-flustered, half-apologetic. He probably hadn’t needed to call, but at least the Lynches would be under the impression there was an adult in his life.

‘Ah, of course.’ Her amusement was unrestrained. ‘Okay. Be friendly.’

‘I will.’ He exhaled, moderately entertained by what her tone implied.

‘And make sure you have fun, now.’

‘Yeah, thanks.’

He hung up, took a breath, and turned around.

 

Lynch had clearly been making an effort not to listen.

To a point.

He was staring, in sincere astonishment.

Adam glanced away, disconcerted. ‘What?’

‘Your girlfriend’s name is _Eve?_ ’

‘No-’ He could feel colour rising, shockingly quickly, to his face.

He hadn’t considered what Lynch would infer from the conversation, but he’d told Ronan his parents were gone… what else would he think?

Ronan was stunned. ‘ _Eve?_ ’

 _Adam and Eve_ , Adam realised abruptly. He fought the urge to raise both hands in protest, feeling his ears going hot. ‘She’s _not_ my girlfriend.’

He wasn’t sure whether the embarrassment of being wrongly attributed biblical significance, or being wrongly attributed a girlfriend (one who would cry with laughter at the thought) was worse, but combined, they were formidable.

‘She lives in my building.’ He continued rapidly. ‘It’s not… _never_.’

Both of Ronan’s eyebrows had climbed his forehead. He looked as disturbed by the thought as Adam felt, probably because of the deeply irreverent element, and he wisely chose to abandon the conversation in favour of pursuing dinner.

 

The new figure stood up when Adam entered the dining room, and took two strides around the table to clasp Adam’s hand.

‘ _Adam_. Niall Lynch.’ He declared amiably. ‘Aurora tells me you’ve got an excellent mind. Not too long now before we’re recruiting you to our division, I imagine.’

His statement left Adam frozen, momentarily, after he’d moved away. Fortunately, Ronan was tugging his sleeve to direct him into a chair, or he might never have moved.

He did look remarkably like Ronan. Same face, same light blue eyes. He didn’t sound like Ronan, though. His voice was smoother, warmer. He was unwaveringly attentive, having regained his seat, while Ronan vanished into the kitchen.

He could talk, eagerly, about almost anything, and Adam gladly asked him about his work. He was instantly conscious of making mistakes in front of him, blundering, embarrassing himself. It was rare that he stumbled in regular conversation, but he already felt awkward about the misunderstanding with Ronan, and Niall seemed to have the dual ability to make him feel uneasy and to recognise it.

Aurora brought out the roast, glazed and golden, and Adam slipped, gratefully, back into relative obscurity. Ronan followed her with a large dish of roast vegetables, and took a place next to Adam.

There were glasses on the table, one by Adam’s plate that was already filled with soda, and champagne flutes. He barely registered the number of them until Niall fetched a bottle of champagne from the kitchen and commenced pouring it into every glass.

Aurora’s hand closed around Adam’s wrist lightly. She whispered; ‘Just humour him.’ and winked.

Ronan was watching his roast vegetables, carefully spooned from dish-to-plate, with intense focus. Matthew was grinning.

‘In celebration-‘ Niall announced, as the glasses were distributed. Adam lifted his own, warmth already spreading across his cheeks from the heat of the food. ‘-of a tremendous victory.’

They were in good spirits, obviously. Adam couldn’t identify what the actual victory was, though he assumed it was something to do with Niall’s work. They toasted, Adam accidentally elbowing Ronan, Matthew forgetting and taking a gulp immediately, Aurora sipping hers before leaning across the table, kissing Ronan’s forehead, then Matthew’s, then Adam’s. His face was red, he knew it, but so was Ronan’s.


	9. Uh oh not puberty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short.

It took a long time for Lynch to go to sleep.

Adam wasn’t trying to notice, but the nearby breathing was strangely distracting. It had been over a decade since Adam had been relegated to his own apartment, and he’d practically always had his own room. The sound of someone so close (and so vulnerable) was unfamiliar.

He moved a lot, initially. Adam could hear the murmur of the sheets as he turned, fidgeted, kicked. Restless.

But, eventually, Ronan slept. His breathing deepened, and he stopped moving.

Adam got up.

He had no intention of poking around the Lynch household, but years of sleepless nights on the weekends had delivered him to habitual insomnia. Alterations to the chemistry assignment would be obvious to Lynch in the morning, so he searched for a book, instead, on Ronan’s shelves.

Reading in the dark was one of Adam’s more underrated talents. He ghosted his fingers across the spines of books curiously, noting the well-worn choices. Some science-fiction, some thrillers, and a startling amount of classic literature.

Irish folk stories, poems by Longfellow. Gifts, Adam expected.

Lynch shifted, throwing his arm above his head. He slept with the window open, draped head to toe in a blanket, and the moonlight hue of his arm against the pillow (and his hair) was striking.

Adam stilled, by the bookcase, but he wasn’t waking.

He was shockingly beautiful.

It was a significant factor in his Aglionby reputation, alongside Gansey’s friendship and his detachment from the majority of the student population. He was fascinating, because he was remote, respected for obtaining Gansey’s attention, and envied for his attractiveness. His actual personality, to Adam’s understanding, was barely relevant.

Adam had been aware of all the gossip, in a distant way. He’d heard the jokes and the stories, regularly overlooked by his classmates while they prattled on. He’d heard Niall was a favourite among the mothers, and reportedly, the female teachers, though he doubted any of the rumours would stand up next to the reality of Aurora Lynch. He’d gathered that Declan Lynch was considered the more academic son, and Matthew the more likeable, and Ronan the most desirable.

It had never seemed important. Lynch was competition in biochemistry, and little else. Gansey was the disarmingly charismatic one, with the ability to effortless converse with others, persuade, compliment, or mollify them at the drop of a hat. Gansey was the one with the skills Adam wanted to emulate.

Although, under closer scrutiny, Lynch was the more composed of the two.

Adam retreated to the spare mattress, turned his back to the bed. It didn’t matter, anyway, if Lynch wasn’t what he’d thought. He’d judged carelessly, and he couldn’t do anything about it. There was no _reason_ to do anything about it. Adam wasn’t in Lynch’s world, just because of one assignment. There was an insurmountable social divide between them, not least because of wealth and popularity, but because Ronan was… normal. _Human_.

Discretion demanded solitude. Adam had too much to hide to attempt any nonchalant friendliness.

And, importantly, Lynch wouldn’t give a damn. Presumably he’d prefer to see out the rest of the assignment and resume indifference to Adam’s existence.

Adam tried to focus on his book.

This wasn’t the first time he’d found himself preoccupied with someone, and recently it had been worse than usual. He blamed the Widower, and the abrupt knowledge that there were other non-humans in the city, even infamous ones. He blamed the Widower’s heroics, and unnecessary civility. He blamed his own curiosity about the vigilante, and the involuntary desire to befriend him.

He didn’t know the figure in the mask, but he wasn’t known, either, and that made it easier. Dangerously easy, if there hadn’t been the issue of the second Widower.

Friendship with the Widower was enticing, and naturally bounded by their mutual need for secrecy.

Friendship with Ronan Lynch, on the other hand, was unrealistic, risky, and not marginally motivated by the prettiness of his face.

 

 

 

The Lynches went to church in the morning.

Adam offered to go with them. The concept of being left alone, unsupervised, in a house full of numerous and probably incredibly valuable items was inexplicable to him, but Niall brushed him off with absolute unconcern. If he wasn’t used to the Catholic mass (he admitted he wasn’t) and he didn’t have an academic interest, Niall assured him he’d more than likely find it a baffling and tedious encounter.

Adam figured it would be impolite to ask why he continued to go.

Ronan was even excused from the activity, in case his schoolmate felt abandoned, but Adam was unwilling to interfere. His preparations were obviously earnest - dark slacks and a buttoned shirt - and he seemed more comfortable with church than staying behind.

So they left Adam at the farm, and drove away.

They’d eaten toast and fruit, which Adam mistakenly thought would be ‘breakfast’, and Aurora had firmly shown him where to access muesli bars, popsicles, fresh fruit, dried fruit, leftovers, and sweets before they’d left. Ronan had been drowsy and unfocused, and repeatedly surprised by Adam’s lingering presence. Somehow he was even less of a conversationalist in the morning, and spent most of the time eating in silence.

As per the instructions Aurora and Matthew had (separately) given him, Adam drank orange juice in front of the television, perused the downstairs bookcases, examined the drone in Matthew’s room, and went outside to greet the chickens and the cows (from over the fence).

The farmhouse was absurdly liveable. It was busy with colour and objects, though not cluttered, and so much of everything seemed to belong to a certain level of non-functional sentimentality.

His own apartment, in contrast, was a utilitarian single room with nothing but a bed, table, kitchen and bathroom.

He never kept anything he stole, for safety, but when the money came back from Blue he could never bring himself to buy any of the quirky entertaining objects he sometimes found.He bought notebooks and pens and second-hand books, but most of the money was for food, or rent.

The Wyverns were more than reasonable, given that he should have been banned from the building altogether, and there was usually excess money that he carefully saved and managed.

The Lynch house didn’t have much of a ‘managed’ sensation to it, and it was charming.

He went upstairs, stripped the mattress and folded the sheets for the laundry, loitered in Ronan’s room long enough to examine the mess on his desk. Lynch clearly favoured doodling to taking notes, and most of his writing was scribbled conversations with Gansey. 

Adam didn’t know how either of them got anything done in class.

He settled, finally, on the porch, around the corner of the house, on a cushioned cane chair with a copy of Montaigne. Someone had moved his bicycle from the foot of the stairs onto the porch itself, out of the weather, leaned it against the house. He suspected it had been Ronan.

He wasn’t sure how long mass usually lasted, but the Lynches weren’t back for a couple of hours. Adam heard the car engine on the hill (Niall Lynch’s sleek BMW) then the tires on gravel out front.

A few minutes later, Ronan appeared around the corner and slumped onto a nearby swing.

‘How was it?’ Was that an appropriate query for someone after church?

Ronan shrugged, but he seemed in a good mood. ‘D’you want to stay for breakfast?’

Adam blinked at him. ‘I already ate.’

‘Hm?’ Ronan could only fit the top half of his body on the swing, and his legs were stretched awkwardly across the ground. He nudged the swing back and forth lightly with his toes. ‘That wasn’t breakfast.’

_Damn, this family could eat._

‘I’d like to stay.’ Adam answered.

Ronan tipped his head against a cushion, eyes closed. It looked like mass had done plenty of work towards putting him to sleep. ‘We can keep testing, if you want.’

Adam considered the current plan doubtfully. ’Stage 3 can’t be done until Bertotti gives us the mice.’

Live subjects weren’t integral for every biochemistry assignment, and Adam hadn’t worked with mice before, so he’d appreciated that Ronan’s idea didn’t include anything cruel. It was probably intentional, given his affection for the other animals here.

‘We can use field mice.’ Ronan murmured. ‘From the barn.’

Adam’s confusion about that statement was considerable, but Ronan continued; ‘Did you sleep alright?’

‘Yeah. Thanks.’ He already knew Ronan hadn’t. ‘It’s nice here.’

He thought Ronan might have smiled, it was difficult to tell.

‘It’s alright. Quiet.’

‘How long have you lived here?’

Ronan paused before responding. ‘Always.’

‘Always.’ Adam repeated. He wanted to know if Ronan would stay, then. He’d have to go to university, surely, after studying at Aglionby. Would he move to the city? Would he move away?

What did he want to study? What did he want to do?

What were the things he liked? What were the things he hated?

Adam’s curiosity was incessant, infuriating.

He kept his mouth shut.

Breakfast - the second time around - was bacon and eggs, sausages, tomatoes and mushrooms, homemade hash browns. Matthew and Niall did most of the cooking, and Ronan and Adam were summoned from the porch when it was ready.

‘You haven’t been at Aglionby for long.’ Niall noted, over the meal. ‘What school were you in before?’

Adam resisted the strong reflex to blush. He didn’t want to lie, but the truth would be an admission of how unlike these people he was.

‘Gillespie.’ He tried not to stare down at his eggs.

There was a moment of silence, as Niall frowned thoughtfully. Adam didn’t risk glancing at Ronan.

Maybe Niall didn’t even know where it was. Aurora and Matthew seemed happily disinterested.

‘You did well to get into Aglionby.’ He remarked eventually. ‘Scholarship?’

The embarrassment won. Adam nodded, reddening, and stared at his breakfast.

‘Excellent.’ Niall smiled, flashing his teeth. ‘That’s a good sign for the future.’

‘If it’s hot today-’ Matthew interjected, sidelining his father without remorse. ‘-you can come swimming with us.’

Adam’s discomfort refused to subside. He hesitated.

‘In the river.’ Matthew explained, unfazed. ‘We swim from the bridge, usually.’

‘He might have shit to do.’ Ronan reminded him sharply. ‘Give him a break.’

Aurora shot a mildly scolding look over the table, but said nothing about his choice of words. Probably a kindness, not to chide him in front of a classmate.

Matthew merely grinned at Adam; ‘Sorry.’

Adam hadn’t answered Ronan’s invitation either, and he wasn’t sure what to say. Firstly, just finding mice for the experiment? And staying here, even longer? They must have been sick of the imposition by now. But Ronan had offered, so maybe he didn’t mind.

And Adam _wanted_ to stay, against his better judgement. Ronan was right… it was quiet here, peaceful, and it smelled weirdly lovely, like dry grass and heated fruit. The Lynches were incredibly pleasant, despite his strangeness and lingering, and Ronan didn’t even seem to dislike his presence.

For once, the threat of wasted time couldn’t sway him. He turned to Ronan, mustering self-possession. ‘Field mice?’

 

 

Ronan took him to the barn, the same that they’d collected feed from the night before, and dug out a metal toolbox with the lid detached from the hinges.

He spent a few minutes layering the bottom with newspaper, wood chips and hay, before showing Adam to a plastic hay crate. He wasn’t exaggerating about the mice - they were prolific and incredibly tame - and Ronan had scooped one from the floor of the crate within seconds.

He lifted it for Adam’s disbelieving inspection.

‘This is what you do in your spare time?’ Adam asked softly. The mouse was brown, almost the same shade as Adam’s hair, and absurdly small against Ronan’s fingers. It remained still, huddled in his palm, nose lifted and twitching in the air.

‘Not all of it.’ Ronan replied, just as softly. ‘Just the good bits.’

Adam couldn’t resist smiling.

“D’you mind mice?’ Ronan lifted it towards him. ‘A mouse?’

Adam had never actually touched a mouse before, and he swiftly discovered there was a good reason for that. As soon as he was within reach the mouse bolted up Ronan’s arm and tried to climb into his sleeve.

‘Shit.’ Ronan caught it, extracted it, tried to pacify it. He looked up apologetically. ‘They don’t normally do that.’

Adam felt himself blushing. _You damn fool_. He couldn’t play with _mice_.

‘That’s…’ Ronan’s eyebrows dropped sternly, examining his catch. ‘… weird.’

‘Do you think they’ll be alright?’ Adam changed the subject quickly. It was probably unkind, considering Ronan’s immediate flash of alarm.

‘You don’t think?’ He contemplated his handful of mouse with concern. ‘How do we find out?’

‘It’s probably safe.’ Adam tried to reassure him, already regretting his choice of distraction. ‘We didn’t put anything lethal in it.’

‘Right.’ Ronan confirmed cautiously. He placed the mouse in the toolbox, and it disappeared under the hay. ‘I guess we need a control.’

It took some additions to the toolbox, but they created a divider between the two ends, and Ronan retrieved another mouse.

‘I guess we won’t know for a few days.’ Adam said slowly. He was crouched on one side of the box, a couple of feet back to stop the mice from panicking, and Ronan was on the other, leaning over the makeshift cage. There were shards of sunlight streaming in from holes in the wooden slats on the roof, and Adam could pick out the tiny dust motes floating in the air. The barn smelled like dust and old hay.

He liked it too much, he realised. He liked Ronan too much.

 

 

 

Adam agreed to swim. He didn’t want to leave, and Matthew’s eagerness was a gift of an excuse.

He had to borrow Matthew’s clothes, and another towel, and spare shoes for the trip, but it was worth it. There were several fields, cows, and fences to negotiate before the mossy, picturesque river bridge came into view.

The river wasn’t running fast, but it was bigger than Adam had expected, and surprisingly deep. The bridge sat over a fairly narrow section of the water, low in the valley and shaded by trees. There were rocks, jutting from the surface like miniature Titanics, that formed an ideal playground for climbing and diving.

It wasn’t particularly safe, but Adam knew how to keep his balance, picking a path from rock to rock, or rock to bridge.

Matthew’s preferred pastime was chasing his brother and attempting to tackle him off the rocks into the water, a fate which he kindly neglected to inflict upon Adam. Ronan didn’t appear to mind. They would dive from the bridge, too, and swim underneath, out of the sunlight, or race leaves from one side to the other, or play-fight in the depths.

It was cool, almost cold with wet clothes, but Adam found a rock to lie on and chased small silver fish with his hands. The water was perfectly clear, and he could watch the image of his fingers distort under the surface.

There was laughter, and a splash, as Matthew succeeded and both the Lynches tumbled into the water, and a few moments later a shadow flickered through the water below Adam’s hand.

They swam well. Better than Adam did, unsurprisingly. His only exposure to swimming had been through school lessons that he’d hated. He had the strength, but lacked the technique, and was primarily limited to a sturdy dog paddle.

Ronan surfaced a few feet away, shaking his head. Droplets sprinkled away from his hair like tiny sparkling fireworks, and he grinned.

Like Adam, he was swimming in a shirt, probably to avoid the sunburn inevitable for skin that pale, but the water still made him look unfamiliar.

‘You right?’ He asked, drifting closer. ‘Bored?’

‘No.’

‘Hungry?’ Matthew called out, climbing back onto the bridge.

‘No.’

‘Sleepy?’

‘No.’ Adam smirked, automatically. He wondered if this was what it was like, having a brother. Games and constant pestering. It couldn’t be that simple.

‘You gotta leave.’ Ronan observed, sinking lower in the water.

‘Yeah.’ Adam shrugged. ‘I should.’

’S’fine.’ Ronan mumbled, almost submerging his chin. ‘You can always come back.’


	10. Little slice of longing

The victory against Jovo Maljevic thrilled his father. Niall was ecstatic, regardless of the thief’s role in Ronan’s success. As far as he was concerned, a non-violent criminal who had insider information could easily be recategorised as an asset rather than a target.

So far, he hadn’t made any observations about the outfit. Possibly, Ronan hoped, he hadn’t seen it. Possibly he made no analysis of Ronan’s interaction with the thief at all.

It was all, shamefully, somewhat insignificant in Ronan’s mind.

Adam… Adam was his singular focus.

_It’s nice here._

It would be weeks before he could process everything that had happened. Everything Adam had said or done. Everything he’d looked at.

Ronan drove him to the train station on Sunday, in the BMW, pretending he could concentrate on anything other than his passenger.

Adam had dried off, changed back into his own clothes, but his hair was still damp. He wouldn’t let it touch the back of his seat, despite Ronan’s assurance that it wouldn’t matter. He leaned forward, instead, watching the road, or Ronan’s grip on the steering wheel.

‘What are you going to call them?’

It took Ronan a few moments to understand what he meant.

‘Don’t know.’ He confessed. ‘Deckard, maybe, for one.’

He’d already thought of using it for a new baby… but the mice were important, now, and their initial subjects didn’t require technical designations for use in the project report.

Adam nodded. ‘How long do they live?’

‘Not long.’ Ronan raised his shoulders, slightly. He could feel Adam looking at him, and attempted to focus intently on the road. ‘Not more than a year.’

He’d take care of them though, while he had them trapped. They’d be returned to the barn as chubby little ovals, even if the suppressants worked.

The train station was close enough, by car, and quiet. It was shaded by oak trees, with sparse wooden seats, but the train was absent. Ronan parked the car and took his time helping Adam pull the bicycle from the back. Adam didn’t seem to mind him lingering, so they sat on one of the benches and watched the empty tracks.

‘Have you always lived in the city?’ He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to pry. But Parrish was right next to him, pensively tracking the movement of birds between trees, and it was impossible not to speak.

‘Mm.’ Adam tipped his head. ‘As far as I remember.’

He’d gone to Gillespie. Did that mean he’d lived near Gillespie? Downtown? It wasn’t where Gansey had driven him on Monday, but maybe he’d moved. He had a scholarship, after all.

Of course he did. He didn’t act like the Aglionby kind, he never had. He’d been there for two years, and his sole focus always seemed to be actually learning. Ronan had never thought about it, the same way he’d never really thought about Adam’s parents, or anything much other than just him.

He wondered (with an immediate flash of guilt) if Adam had been given a guardian, or sent to an orphanage. He didn’t know if orphanages even existed anymore, but he couldn’t escape the image of young Adam Parrish in Dickensian dormitory, awaiting his turn to be sent off to primary school, and then sentenced to Gillespie, before claiming his academic freedom through Aglionby, of all places.

_Eve._

He said she lived in his building, wherever that was. A neighbour, then. Maybe an elderly neighbour, and that was why Adam had said “ _it’s_ _not, never”_ in the way that he had.

Eve was a pretty girl name.

But to Ronan, in matters of Parrish, all girl names sounded like pretty girl names.

He didn’t have a right, to feel that way. To have his insides knot the second Parrish talked to someone else, mentioned someone else. He still _did_. It felt like he’d taken a shotgun shell to the stomach as soon as Adam had said a woman’s name, and he’d searched for an excuse. A sister, maybe, but what parents would name their children Adam and Eve? Possibly she was a guardian, Ronan had hoped, but then she wouldn’t be an afterthought, and his tone wouldn’t have been so… conspiratorial.

‘I was adopted here.’ Adam explained, suddenly. ‘I’ve never really left the city.’

Ronan blushed, hoped that his curiosity hadn’t been so blatantly obvious.

‘You’ll leave for college?’ There was no way Parrish would study the way he did without broader academic plans in place. Ronan could imagine him somewhere legendary, lab coat on and textbooks piled into his arms.

Christ, the thought of him leaving was terrible.

The metal tracks in front of them were beginning to hum. Adam stood up, shouldered his bag, and straightened the bicycle. He extended a hand, and Ronan had to hold his breath before he could shake it.

‘Thanks.’ The train was rattling closer, older and louder than the swift trains updated for metropolitan use. Adam’s hair was nearly dry, almost curling as the moisture evaporated. ‘For… everything.’

Ronan let his hand drop to his hip, resisted the urge to curl it into a fist. ‘Any time.’

Parrish smiled, as the train slowed to a stop beside them, and wheeled the bicycle away.

 

 

 

He couldn’t sleep.

He couldn’t focus.

He couldn’t _stop_.

He had to stop. Adam thought he was… Adam didn’t know.

He wanted to come back. To visit again. He actually liked staying over, unless he was an incredible actor. He liked _Ronan_.

Enough to tolerate, anyway. Enough to talk to, stay with, wait with.

It felt like a victory. It wasn’t supposed to, or allowed to, but it did. After all, Eve might not have been his girlfriend, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one. Or a boyfriend, for that matter, or even merely an overwhelming indifference to Ronan in particular.

Ronan still felt elated. Weightless. He couldn’t sleep for the feeling.

 

 

 

Niall drove them to school the next morning. Ronan let Matthew fill the silence, stared out the passenger side window. He could picture Adam cycling on the edges of the road, flushed from the heat and exertion. He could recollect the ease with which Adam leapt over fences on the way to the river, planting his hands on the wood and slinging both legs over in one movement.

Ronan hadn’t had the impression he was unusually athletic. He didn’t play any sports, at least not at Aglionby, and he never mentioned any, but he was still fit, and impressively agile.

The orange Camaro was already in the parking lot when they reached Aglionby, but they were always late when their father drove them.

Gansey would drive them home again, after rowing, probably stay over. Ronan wished he could say something, talk about it. He probably could, because Gansey wouldn’t be an asshole about it, but it seemed impossible to drop that into conversation.

Adam Parrish, of all people. The bio partner Ronan was so vehemently opposed to, and had never spoken to previously. He’d heard Adam talk, often enough, but it still seemed unjustifiably strange to admire someone from such a distance. Ronan himself wasn’t entirely sure why it had all started. He knew it was early, when Adam had first arrived. He knew it was before he’d started working as the Widower. He knew that _now_ , every distinctive mannerism and quiet remark provoked his appreciation, but he couldn’t tell what about Parrish had originally transfixed him.

Gansey met him before class, shaking his head immediately at Ronan’s inattention. ‘How’d the weekend go?’

‘Good.’ Ronan shrugged past the question. ‘Got some shit done.’

_Adam had slept in his bedroom._

‘Good.’ Gansey said approvingly. ‘It’s only a couple of weeks now.’

‘You rowing this afternoon?’

‘Are you coming?’

‘Yeah.’

Adam hadn’t suggested they meet again. There was a lab on Tuesday, anyway, a tutorial on Wednesday, and a second lab on Thursday. Ronan didn’t dare consider the possibility that Parrish would want to test on the weekend again. He couldn’t imagine himself offering. Better not to think about it.

His stomach was still tightening uncomfortably by the time second period rolled around and he encountered Adam.

He intended to show up barely on time, so there wasn’t any awkward loitering outside class, and naturally the teacher was also late. It was Ellis, one of Ronan’s favourites precisely because of his relaxed attitude to class times and deadlines, but he’d been waylaid by a private PT meeting which left Ronan exactly as awkwardly in Adam’s proximity as he’d been trying to avoid.

Parrish, predictably, had no similar sense of discomfort. He smirked mildly at Ronan’s approach and explained Ellis’s status.

‘Right.’ Ronan frowned over his shoulder, aware that it looked as though something down the hall was testing his patience. Parrish’s smirk was mostly in his eyes, and Ronan couldn’t look directly at him. He didn’t continue, though, and Ronan hastily searched for something to say. ‘The mice survived the night.’

‘Oh.’ His eyes widened. ‘Great. Have they been eating?’

‘Both of them.’ Ronan clarified. ‘Incessantly.’

‘Hm.’ Adam frowned thoughtfully. ‘Is that concerning?’

His deliberation was probably more for Ronan’s benefit than his own. Parrish would know that it would take longer than overnight for the effects of the suppressants to become noticeable.

‘No.’ Ronan answered anyway. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

He wondered, for the first time, what it was like being able to talk to people, easily and willingly, like Gansey. It wasn’t something he typically envied (few people were worth talking to), but with Parrish, a little extra capacity would be favourable.

Adam didn’t seem to notice, or at least he didn’t seem to care.

‘Are you staying for rowing after school?’ He asked mildly.

‘Yeah.’ Ronan tried for nonchalant, failed miserably, and heard himself say; ‘Too thrilling to miss.’

Adam’s amusement was the faintest, ironic quirk of his mouth. ‘Maybe they’ll actually row today.’

‘Don’t bet on it.’

Ellis appeared, shuffling down the corridor with all the enthusiasm of a slug. ‘Alright, settle down.’ He waved everyone aside to gain access to the classroom door.

Ronan could still feel the twist in his lips, and Adam’s presence burning in his periphery. He wouldn’t remember anything of this lesson, he could absolutely guarantee it.

 

 

 

In a remarkable display of self-restraint, Gansey didn’t make any comment at lunch, or at rowing, or on the ride home (probably because Matthew was chatting happily in the backseat). He waited until they were alone, in the fresh evening coolness of the fields.

‘You know you can talk to me, if something is wrong.’ He started earnestly. Ronan cleared his throat, his immediate reflex to deny everything, but Gansey continued; ‘Not that anything _is_ wrong, but… I just wanted you to know.’

His sincerity was too endearing. Ronan firmly concentrated on scratching Chani’s forehead. ‘Gansey.’

‘I know.’ Gansey toed a clump of grass sheepishly. ‘I know… I’m paranoid.’

‘You worry too much.’

Ronan didn’t usually give Gansey much to worry about, but he readily admitted Gansey had a propensity towards anxiety. When Declan had left, Gansey had pestered him for weeks about how he was coping with it. Admittedly, he hadn’t felt good, but Gansey had apparently considered the event serious and potentially traumatic. 

Other things - injuries obtained as the Widower, exhaustion, poor grades - similarly excited Gansey’s intense concern, but would swiftly pass into distant memory.

He just worried. It was part of his personality, and Ronan didn’t mind the attention, regardless of how close he got to Ronan’s secrets.

Ronan didn’t like hiding things from him. It had been especially difficult when he’d first fought on his own, won on his own, and Gansey had been the one person he’d desperately wanted to tell. Gradually it had become normal, a clear compartmentalisation. It wasn’t as though he didn’t trust Gansey, but the Widower wasn’t his to share.

Parrish was… but the thought of saying anything aloud was paralysing. He didn’t know if Gansey suspected, or if Gansey minded, or if Gansey even permitted himself to consider the subject. Ronan barely had, until Adam, until a long time after he’d arrived.

‘But are you okay?’ Gansey had circled Chani, and she’d traitorously turned her gaze to him, abandoning Ronan.

‘Fine.’ It came out more like a sigh than Ronan had intended. Gansey identified his uncertainty with laser-like focus.

‘Is it Declan?’ He frowned, watching Ronan carefully. ‘Are you worried about him?’

Declan returning, for the school holidays, meant arguments in the house, sidelong glances and muttered recriminations. He didn’t like Ronan working. He didn’t like Niall encouraging it. Gansey might not have known why, exactly, but he was aware Declan and Niall didn’t really get along. Declan came home to see Matthew, mostly, and Ronan, at a stretch.

Sure, he was a little on edge about Declan. He didn’t want the house to turn into a war zone, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want Declan to come.

He shrugged. ‘Not really.’

It couldn’t be this difficult.

_You know Parrish?_

_Adam? Of course._

_I… I…_

It was definitely this difficult. Ronan couldn’t do it. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the horizon.

He wasn’t embarrassed about the Adam part. Gansey knew Parrish was brilliant, would recognise why it had to be him. Ronan was embarrassed because… because it might have been Gansey, if Adam had never showed up. It never was, but it could have been. He was embarrassed because he didn’t have the guts to say anything, and because he’d hidden it and pretended there was nothing going on. He was embarrassed because he was afraid of Niall finding out, Declan, even Matthew, and obviously Parrish.

Given enough time, enough opportunity, Gansey would figure it out. The only thing that had saved Ronan’s ass this long was the interference of the cat. Ronan’s distraction had started when he’d encountered the thief, and the chemistry assignment had only intensified the problem, so Gansey hadn’t been given the chance to correlate Ronan’s moods with his Parrish encounters.

He would see, though, eventually. He would notice Ronan’s behaviour, if Adam was around often enough.

This would be a thousand times worse if Ronan didn’t admit it. Gansey would think he was a coward… or a liar… or both. And he would be right.

‘Gansey.’ Ronan raised his shoulders awkwardly, scouring the fence line and the distant buildings for any sign of family members. ‘It’s Parrish.’

Gansey stared at him blankly. Frowned. Stared more.

Slowly, he chewed his bottom lip.

The other cows had dispersed, amiably, and Chani was the last one near them. It was getting late, the last tendrils of sunset creeping away and leaving them in gloom. Dinner was probably ready, but Ronan couldn’t run away now. He straightened up under Gansey’s gaze.

‘What did he do?’ It was strangely stern. Protective.

Ronan shook his head, stifled his startled laughter. ‘Nothing. It’s not… That’s not what I meant.’

Gansey’s expression was harder to see, as the light faded, but he was still obviously confused. ‘Is he messing with your project?’

‘Nah, man.’ Ronan tried to let his limbs slacken, tried to shake off the tension biting at his nerves. ‘Adam’s alright. He’s…’ _Adam. Wonderful. Hypnotising._ ‘Perfect.’

Ronan could see comprehension hitting Gansey in one sudden instant, and he could swear Gansey’s eyes became several times larger and rounder in the darkness. ‘Oh.’

He couldn’t tell if he was breathing any more.

If this was what it was like trying to tell Gansey, he couldn’t even imagine actually approaching Parrish about it.

‘Oh.’ Gansey repeated, and Ronan could see his teeth flash, hear the warmth flooding his voice. ‘Ronan.’

He rolled his eyes in response.


	11. Good friendship is theft

Every rustle of fabric that night made Ronan blush.

Gansey was meant to be sleeping on the mattress beside his bed, but in reality he was constantly sitting up and lying down again, distracted and excited.

‘Since when?’ He’d asked, and Ronan had shrugged.

‘And he doesn’t know yet?’ He’d demanded, and Ronan had groaned. _Yet? What the hell, Gansey?_

‘But how was the weekend?’ He’d whispered, and Ronan remembered.

He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, arms spread. There was the faintest murmur of a breeze through the window, not enough to warrant the sheet tangled around his legs.

Gansey had restrained himself, until night had fallen, dinner had passed, and the house was quiet, but he’d continued to buzz with energy. He wanted to know everything, he made that clear. _Everything_. Ronan wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but he found the mere idea of discussing Parrish furtively thrilling.

‘We tested.’ Ronan explained, voice thick. ‘In the lab. He did… he did most of it.’

‘He’s clever.’ Gansey said knowingly.

‘He had lunch here. He met Mom.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And… he had to stay, it was too late for the train.’

Fabric hissed. Gansey’s head appeared in Ronan’s periphery. ‘He stayed over?’

‘Yeah.’

The bed dipped as Gansey planted both hands on the edge of Ronan’s mattress. ‘ _And?’_

‘Nothing.’ Ronan blushed, again, hoping the dark would conceal it. ‘There’s not… He doesn’t _know_ anything about it.’

‘But he stayed.’ Gansey voice was awed. ‘Here? Right here? _Ronan_.’

Ronan rolled onto his stomach, pressed his burning face into a cold patch of his pillow. ‘Stop.’

It was a wondrous charity that Gansey ignored him. ‘What else happened? What did he say?’

‘He had dinner with us.’ Ronan said slowly. ‘Dad was here. He called someone in his building, to say he wasn’t going home.’

Gansey made a thoughtful noise. ‘Does he live by himself?’

‘Dunno. Her name is Eve.’

‘Eve?’ Gansey’s tone peaked curiously. ‘As in…?’

‘I don’t know.’ Ronan sighed, rolled onto his back. ‘It’s not his sister. He said she wasn’t his girlfriend.’

There was a pause, as Gansey processed this information. ‘He said that?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What else did he say?’

‘He said he was adopted.’ Ronan related the knowledge he’d studiously stockpiled. ‘He went to Gillespie, before. He’s at Aglionby on a scholarship.’

Gansey didn’t respond, so Ronan knew this was old information.

‘We went swimming.’ He contributed instead. It wasn’t relevant, but he was fascinated with the memory of Adam crouching on the rocks, watching, Matthew having just dragged Ronan into the water. Ronan had been careful not to stare at him, at that point, but he had a lingering sense of Parrish’s woodland gold skin glittering with water droplets.

He caught laughter bubbling up his throat, inadvertent and embarrassed. ‘He asked if the cows were dangerous.’

Gansey lay down again, gently. ‘You had fun.’

He was charmed, by the idea of Ronan liking someone. It made Ronan wonder what he’d expected, what suspicions he’d actually held. It was deeply preferable, though, to some of the reactions Ronan had been afraid of. Dismay, for one. Damage control, for another.

The point of telling Gansey wasn’t to ask him what to do, or how to get away from this. It was a way of indicating that he trusted Gansey, more than anyone, with something that made him feel perpetually balanced on the precipice of a meltdown.

It wasn’t something he regretted. He couldn’t. It was _Adam_.The concept of other people not being enthralled by Parrish was mysterious to him.

‘Will you tell him?’ Gansey whispered.

‘No.’ Ronan answered swiftly. ‘Never.’

Without this assignment, they never even would have spoken. Ronan would have semi-contentedly lived the rest of his life in Parrishless isolation.

‘Do you want to stay friends?’ Gansey was using the tone he normally saved for Matthew’s shenanigans. Half-kind, half-scolding.

‘Gansey.’

‘Do you?’

‘Gansey.’

‘ _Ronan_.’

‘Yes.’ Ronan growled.

Gansey sprang up. ‘So I can talk to him?’

‘Of course.’ Ronan winced. ‘I wouldn’t stop you.’

There was a noise very reminiscent of a snort from his right. ‘Yeah, sure.’

‘Shut up.’

‘I mean, do you want…’ He hesitated. ‘ _What_ do you want?’

There was a pause. Ronan considered the question, but he already knew there wasn’t an answer.

He didn’t know what he wanted, exactly. He knew it had a lot to do with Adam’s attention. He didn’t know if it involved his affection, particularly, because the idea of Parrish being affectionate seemed strange, unrealistic.

The most dangerous of his dreams (during the day or during sleep) were the ones tangling Parrish with the Widower. Ronan frequently wondered, guiltily, what it would be like for Parrish to discover the truth. An unexpected, unplanned revelation. He could have been shocked, even horrified, but Ronan’s imagination always supplied the far less likely responses of amazement, respect, and in heroic scenarios, delight.

The silence dragged on too long, and Gansey hummed. ‘So he can eat with us tomorrow?’

Ronan groaned.

 

 

 

By the time Adam got home, his apartment was unlocked.

It wasn’t unheard of, though it was unusual. Blue Sargent was as good at picking locks as she was at fencing stolen goods, and she was probably visiting just in order to find out if he was dead.

She’d broken into his fridge, as well, and was watching videos on her phone with a handful of sad-looking grapes. ‘Good god, man, get some proper food.’

Adam dropped his backpack on the floor, pulled open the pantry and grabbed a bag of chips. ‘Mm.’

‘You’ve brought nothing to me.’ She noted. ‘I thought the boogeyman might have gotten you. Or possibly the Widower.’

He didn’t answer, but he moved over to sit on the back of the couch. She watched him, curious and slightly amused.

‘Eve said you’ve made a new friend.’

He blinked at her, slowly, and she smirked.

‘You stayed over.’ She continued, smile widening. ‘With this new friend.’

‘A classmate.’ Adam corrected softly. ‘From Aglionby.’

Her expression flickered momentarily from amusement to scorn, and Adam felt a pinch of guilt. Ronan wasn’t just some Aglionby asshole, and allowing him to be easily dismissed as such wasn’t exactly fair.

‘And you didn’t even steal anything.’ Blue remarked. ‘Shame.’

He shrugged, languid. Being around Blue made him feel at least as much cat as human.

‘It’s disappointing.’ She admitted. ‘I thought you were distracted by something other than studying for a change.’

‘Nope.’

‘But you’ve heard about Maljevic.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘The Widower annihilated his operation.’

He hadn’t told her about his interactions with the Widower, after the initial meeting, and Blue remained wary of the vigilante and the threat he posed to Adam’s work.

He hadn’t told Eve or the others either, but they always knew what was happening in the city. Eve already suspected his role in the Maljevic incident, and her curiosity about his dealings with the Widower made him feel strangely defensive.

‘He doesn’t come this far downtown usually.’ Blue continued. ‘Think he’s getting brazen?’

‘Brazen.’ Adam murmured. He assumed that the Widower - both Widowers - stayed uptown out of respect, not caution. Seeing the young Widower fight was demonstration enough that there were few common criminals downtown who could oppose them.

‘And?’ Blue was clearly irritated by his taciturnity. ‘When should I expect your full attention to return to business?’

Adam pushed off the back of the couch, crumpling the empty chip packet in his hand. ‘Now.’

Blue stayed. She was excellent company, usually reading or picking apart jewellery in companionable silence while Adam studied. Eve was especially fond of her, insisting upon visiting when she was around, and within a few hours the two of them were huddled on the sofa in conspiratorial conversation.

Adam joined them when it got late, with an offering of fruit and cobbled together snacks.

‘He’s never stayed with a classmate before.’ Eve commented slyly, clearly reigniting some previous point of discussion.

Adam picked up a slice of apple and sank his teeth into it, crouching on one arm of the sofa.

Blue picked up Eve’s train of thought effortlessly. ‘Didn’t even pocket anything.’

‘How’d this kid lure out our little hermit?’

Adam waited for them to finish before he attempted to answer. He found their amusement mildly intriguing. Was he really so antisocial that dating was impossible? Was it unbelievable that he’d fall in with someone who thought he was appealing?

‘He’s my lab partner.’ He explained finally. ‘We have a biochemistry assignment due at the end of semester.’

Neither of them were deterred by this tedious rationale.

‘Lucky for him.’ Eve said dryly.

‘What’s it about, then?’ Blue kicked her feet up on the coffee table. ‘Why did you need to stay?’

‘Appetite suppression. He lives out of town.’

‘Rich?’

Adam cleared his throat, and Blue smirked. Eve said; ‘Seduce him.’

She didn’t know Ronan Lynch.

Realistically, neither did Adam, but he doubted it would be possible, even if he was foolish enough to try.

‘He’s Catholic.’ Adam told them, and Blue’s eyebrows ticked upwards.

Eve waved a dismissive hand. ‘Perfect. You’ll be forbidden and irresistible.’

He hastily suppressed an embarrassed smirk. Any sign of weakness now and they would swoop on it like birds of prey.

‘Is he intolerable, though?’ Blue continued, after her laughter had subsided. ‘Should we be more sympathetic?’

Adam shrugged. ‘He doesn’t say much. Think he just wants it done.’

‘They’re supposed to be smart.’ Eve noted vacantly. ‘Those Aglionby boys. Isn’t it a smart school?’

‘Smart or _rich_.’ Blue corrected. ‘It’s an either-or situation.’

_Not him._

Adam contemplated the option of explaining that Ronan was neither intolerable, nor stupid, but decided against it.

‘Not long now.’ Eve offered consolingly. ‘School’s nearly over.’

 

 

 

Lynch was late to lab on Tuesday by a few minutes, though Bertotti didn’t seem to care. He slipped onto the seat beside Adam’s, with a brisk nod of acknowledgement, and looked away before Adam could return the gesture. An almost imperceptible fragrance arrived with him, cologne or shampoo, that Adam spent a moment trying to identify. It was pleasantly familiar, either as a result of association with Lynch and his possessions, or due to component scents that Adam wasn’t able to isolate.

He wondered if he was the kind of person who would desire Ronan Lynch for his status.

Lynch was popular, smart, attractive, and widely considered the most unobtainable figure in school (Gansey, while more friendly, was a close second). He was rich, though, which should easily have been enough to dislodge Adam’s interest… usually.

Ronan’s hand was on the counter, fingertips tapping impatiently. He had large, evenly proportioned hands, and a significant number of scars across his knuckles, probably unsurprising given his farming hobbies. Adam glanced at his own hands, heavy knuckled but narrow, and the faint red pattern lingering across the back.

It would be preferable, to find Lynch aesthetically pleasing and nothing else. It would hardly be _unreasonable_.

But he hadn’t cared before. He hadn’t cared until he’d needed to talk to Ronan, watch him work, meet his family.

Bertotti was describing his expectations for the next series of classes, and Ronan was drawing in his notebook. Adam wondered if he could write him a note, start a conversation like the kind he had with Gansey. They’d be able to talk through the experiment, anyway, especially given that they were repeating stages, but either way he didn’t know what to say.

Ronan answered the question for him, sliding over his book. He’d drawn two mice, one climbing the side of a cartoonish microscope, and the other dislodging test tubes and beakers from a shelf. He was toying with his pen, watching Bertotti distractedly, and Adam was convinced he wasn’t listening.

The difference in Lynch’s behaviour between school and home wasn’t subtle, but it was difficult to describe. He was less interested in Adam’s presence, in the assignment, in conversation, and evidently not absorbed in the work. Perhaps it was boredom, but his fidgeting, scribbling, tapping lack of focus was more suggestive of uneasiness than anything else.

Maybe he just didn’t like school.

As soon as Bertotti stopped talking he hunched over, scratching something into his book.

‘M’starving.’ He mumbled. ‘Christ.’

Adam smirked, but barely. ‘Only fifty minutes to wait.’

He wasn’t amused. ‘I’ll be dead before then.’

‘You should try suppressants.’ Adam advised softly, and Ronan snorted.

‘Make them big and cheeseburger-flavoured and I might.’

He shifted, impatient, and Adam could see the cake, burger, pizza shapes beginning to spread across the surface of his paper.

‘I want a pretzel.’ He added suddenly. ‘Beef wellington and roast potatoes.’

‘Seafood.’ Adam replied. ‘Calamari. Crab and grilled fish.’

Ronan’s response was a noisy sigh. ‘Salmon and crab linguine.’

‘Tuna bake.’

‘Mac and cheese.’ Ronan stopped Adam with a glare. ‘You’re not helping.’

‘You’re not helping yourself.’

He frowned, and Adam’s mouth twitched. He was dangerously, endearingly petulant. ‘Chocolate brioche.’

‘Cherry pie.’

‘Cranberry biscotti. I’m so _hungry_.’ He groaned. Bertotti looked up from a perusal of someone else’s bench-top with a raised eyebrow, but made no comment.

Ronan brushed aside the teacher’s expression, unbothered, along with Adam’s wary sidelong glance.

‘Didn’t you eat at break?’ Adam wasn’t particularly serious… He’d seen the Lynches’ appetites, and it wouldn’t be a surprise if Ronan had eaten three courses and was still desperate for lunch, but with dramatic misery Ronan shook his head.

‘Gansey distracted me.’ Ronan warned; ‘My stomach’s going to eat itself.’

Adam watched him fidget for a moment. He carried fruit, usually, but he’d eaten today’s apple at break. There was nothing else edible in his bag, and nothing he could formulate in the lab besides salt.

‘Hold on.’ He left the counter, and Ronan’s discomfort, and strolled across the room.

True to form, someone at another bench leaned over and caught his sleeve. ‘Oi, Parrish.’

The grabber, Ashworth, wasn’t much use to him, but Adam obligingly allowed himself to be dragged over. The lab partner, Szymanski, was likely to be a more lucrative target.

‘Is this right?’ Ashworth grumbled, prodding a beaker hung above a bunsen burner dubiously. ‘It’s not fucking boiling.’

‘It won’t.’ Adam stretched his leg absentmindedly, examining their experiment and notes, until he could feel someone’s backpack against his ankle. He pushed it aside. ’It needs to be combined before you heat it.’

‘That’s not what the instructions say.’ Ashworth said, pointedly scrutinising his partner. Szymanski scowled back.

‘It’ll combine faster when it’s hot.’ Adam shrugged. ‘You can start adding it in now to speed up the process. Watch it doesn’t boil off too rapidly though.’

As he left the bench, one of the loose assignment sheets caught up in his wake fluttered to the ground. He crouched to pick it up, noting the argument starting behind him over the validity of the instructions, and replaced it on the table.

Unacknowledged, he returned to his position next to Lynch.

Ronan had stilled, eyes narrowed, faintly curious. Silently, Adam slid a bag of Skittles across the desk.

He could see Lynch understood immediately, gaze flickering from the candy to the back of Ashworth’s head, but he said nothing. For a second Adam waited, stunned by his own recklessness, and then Ronan laughed, a quiet little huff with his mouth curving at the edges, and it was worth it.


	12. Those three minutes

Somehow, Gansey was already outside by the time class finished. He was waiting for them. He was waiting for Parrish, at any rate.

His plan, carefully described to Ronan the night before, was to trap Parrish into friendship. He was concerned that Adam would return to solitude, after the biochem project was done, and Ronan would be too… _reserved_ to stop him. They needed to win Adam’s trust, therefore, and coax him into sustained communication over the semester break.

Repeated attempts to point out how untrustworthy, unnecessary and frankly _deranged_ his plan sounded had little effect on Gansey’s enthusiasm. He was convinced Adam could be won over, and Ronan was disinclined to doubt him.

People rarely denied Gansey what he wanted. Ronan had seen classmates, teachers, and government officials fold in his presence, and Parrish wouldn’t be an exception.

He didn’t know, though, how Parrish would interpret Gansey’s interest. As a personal invitation? Something approved by Ronan? Something requested by Ronan?

Would Parrish suspect?

He didn’t even hear it. He left after Adam, and found him with Gansey in the hallway, discussing the prospects of the school’s debating team.

‘Lynch!’ Gansey announced, lifting both eyebrows. ‘Adam has accused me of intentionally starving you.’

From the subtle spread of uneasiness across Parrish’s features, Ronan knew he’d said nothing of the kind. He rolled his eyes and leaned on the nearest locker. ‘Your intention was irrelevant. You did starve me.’

‘Slander.’ Gansey retorted. ‘Unjustifiable slander.’

‘Indefensible behaviour.’ Ronan shrugged, dismissive. ‘You’ll be sorry when I pass out and die.’

‘Uh huh.’ Gansey looked doubtful, but he continued; ‘Adam’s joining us for lunch.’

He managed not to sound triumphant about it, but Ronan expected a good quantity of smugness to arise later.

It wouldn’t matter, particularly, because he was already battling the considerable urge to grab Gansey by the lapels and shake him violently.

Parrish had stolen food for him. Parrish had stolen food. For _him_.

Granted, it was to stop him complaining, but Ronan couldn’t get over it. He wanted to sink down to the floor and giggle. He wanted to jump off a building. He wanted to tell Gansey immediately.

He had _stolen_ the skittles, but probably from Syzmanski, so Ronan didn’t have any moral qualms about it. He managed to do it so seamlessly, too. It was actually fairly impressive. Ronan wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been tracking Adam’s every movement with intense focus.

He gratefully let Gansey carry the conversation forward over lunch. Parrish usually never spoke so much, uninterrupted, and Ronan liked listening to him gently explaining his doubts on the validity of utilitarianism in the twenty-first century. His voice was even and mild, but Ronan could detect an undercurrent of firm certainty. He was too clever to argue with, and Gansey wasn’t about to try.

His uniform sat rather loosely over his shoulders. Ronan hadn’t realised until he’d visited the farm how ill-fitting it was. In a t-shirt and jeans Adam looked less thin, and less faded, but at school everything about him was muted. His eyes betrayed amusement, sometimes, when he might have considered it inappropriate or unwise to smile. And he was aware, constantly aware, of what was happening around him.

It was shocking… it was almost unbelievable… that Ronan’s attention had escaped his notice. Occasionally Ronan wondered if it actually had, or if Adam was just exercising remarkable self-restraint in pretending it had.

The thought terrified him, threatened embarrassment beyond description, but was swiftly escaped by reminding himself that Parrish hadn’t acknowledged anything, and therefore he was safe at least for now.

‘Capitalism disregards the principle of diminishing returns.’ Adam said, patiently. ‘There are limits to what economic success can achieve for individual wellbeing.’

Ronan loved his voice. He closed his eyes and let his head drop back against bricks, once again safely nestled behind the robotics lab, Gansey to his left and Parrish across from him. The sun didn’t quite reach them, but he felt warm, warm and sleepily content.

The bell rang, somewhere, distantly. Ronan was willing to ignore it.

‘Democracy and capitalism are natural bed-fellows,’ Gansey was saying, even as he stood and straightened. Like Ronan he never carried a bag, just a few crackling wrappers from whatever he’d had with lunch. ‘What are you doing tonight?’

It took all of Ronan’s self-control not to launch himself upright in fear. He held still, held his breath, held his eyes closed.

‘Nothing.’ The murmur of Parrish’s clothing, probably his backpack slung over one shoulder. ‘Just… studying.’

‘I was going to stay at _his_.’ Gansey said, pointedly. ‘Would you like to join us?’

There was a pause. Adam didn’t answer. Ronan didn’t move.

‘I…’

Someone kicked his leg. Definitely Gansey. Ronan opened his eyes to slits and glared. He could feel Adam watching him, discomfort in every aspect of his stance.

‘Yeah, Parrish.’ The name almost caught in his throat. _Please, God, let him not fuck this up_. ‘Whatever.’

Gansey seemed to consider kicking him again, but decided against it, and Parrish, minutely, relaxed. ‘Thanks.’ He almost smiled, wry and lovely. ‘But they’ll expect me back.’

He didn’t elaborate on who “they” were, and Gansey, apparently startled by his refusal, failed to ask.

The disappointment hit Ronan in the gut like a baseball bat, but the relief quickly followed. He was afraid, too afraid of Parrish finding out… but it was Gansey, too. He was afraid of Parrish saying yes, and following Gansey, and talking with Gansey, and preferring Gansey, and… he was afraid of how it would feel.

Gansey walked Adam back to class, and Ronan stayed behind. He wasn’t jealous, it wasn’t like that. He didn’t think of Gansey as competition, or as interference, or as a threat. It was just common sense. Adam, like everyone else at Aglionby, liked Gansey more than Ronan. Ronan wouldn’t deny it, or fight it, but he wasn’t ready to watch it up close. Not with Parrish.

He could accept it. He _could_. But not so soon.

 

 

 

Adam worked the rest of the week. He did small things, mostly. Little, separate jobs, like a necklace and bracelet outside a theatre, a wallet in a nightclub, a gilded clock from someone’s mantelpiece, an autographed football from someone’s living room.

He picked his targets, as always, but he didn’t want to do anything big. He didn’t want to linger in any place for too long, carry too much stuff, or target the wrong person.

He didn’t want to piss off the Widower.

It wasn’t as though he didn’t want to see the Widower… the opposite, in fact. But the vigilante was increasingly likely to disturb his work, and Adam was decreasingly productive because of it, and neither he nor Blue could maintain such a slump for long. They needed the money, and Adam hadn’t developed any doubts about the way he obtained it.

He’d refused an invitation from Richard Gansey III, to commit crimes and generally slink about alone. He’d incinerated the first possibility of a social life he’d ever really had, but it was necessary.

Gansey was intimidating, anyway. He ruled Aglionby, and nobody even bothered to contest his right. Adam couldn’t risk being involved, trying to keep up. He needed to focus.

He needed space.

_He’d stolen from someone at school._

A measly bag of skittles, admittedly, but he’d still done it. And he’d done it purely to have Ronan Lynch see him do it, understand what he’d done, _notice_ him again. It was weak, juvenile, unforgivable. He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid.

He couldn’t believe how badly he wanted to do it again.

Damn Ronan Lynch. Damn his own lack of self-control. He’d never been this stupid before. He’d never let anything get in the way of work and caution before.

Damn Lynch’s blue eyes and the line of his throat when he leaned against the wall.

He’d even wanted to accept Gansey’s offer, just to go back the farm, just to see Lynch asleep. He wanted to know if Ronan would be different, again. If he’d actually look at Adam and see him, like he’d seemed to on the weekend.

He tried not to observe Ronan much, in their other classes together. They sat separately, they didn’t talk. He was distinctly aware that Ronan never approached or spoke to him unless he was forced to. Despite the farm, and his apparent mellowness, Lynch wasn’t really there at school. He didn’t even talk much during lunch, either to Adam or Gansey. He only engaged in their shared labs, and his attention was erratic.

Adam wondered how they stayed friends. He wondered if Gansey talked, and Ronan listened, or if Ronan talked when Adam wasn’t there.

He wondered if they were more than friends.

After all, they were always together. They were inseparable. Adam wouldn’t have been the first to suspect it wasn’t platonic.

But he _knew_ it wasn’t so simple. Ronan was religious. His parents were… intense, to say the least. Gansey was the son of a senator, a child of power. It seemed impossible that anything between the two of them would be permitted, even if it was possible.

Maybe that was wishful thinking.

The Thursday lab was the only time Adam would catch Ronan alone again, and be able to hold his attention. He had promised himself he would make allowances, because of the project. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t let paranoia and fantasy get in the way of work.

‘Are you free this weekend?’

Ronan had been silent, besides a greeting and a few comments on the mice Bertotti had given them. Adam’s question fell into the dead air, flat and unwanted.

‘Yeah.’ He seemed surprised. Perhaps he’d assumed Adam would leave the final testing to him.

‘I was thinking we could…’ _Why was he so surprised? Did he dislike the question?_ ‘Catch up.’

‘Yes.’ Lynch answered absently. ‘You should come over.’ 

Adam wasn’t sure how to respond. There was no enthusiasm in Ronan’s voice, but there didn’t seem to be resentment, either. His surprise must have been a result of some other distraction, something that seemed to bother him regularly during school.

He was still trying to formulate a response when Ronan seemed to stir himself, with some difficulty. ‘Yes.’ He repeated. ‘Did you want to come over? I was… going to take the mice with me, unless you wanted them.’

Adam yielded responsibility gratefully. The new mice, much like the others, hated his presence with mousey passion.

‘I’ll pick you up from the train, then.’ Ronan added, frowning at the bench. ‘It’s… not far.’

He hadn’t said anything afterwards, either, and Adam’s cautious optimism about his favour was rapidly diminishing.

He stole a Cartier watch on Thursday, to make up for it. A pendant, too, inset with a ruby and three small diamonds. A rose-shaped brooch in gold.

Friday. Friday would make him feel better. Friday would push these puerile anxieties from his mind.

 

 

 

He knew the Widower would be out in the city… his Widower.

It took a little bit of poking around, but Adam tracked him down near the docks. He was watching figures trailing up and down the boulevard across from the port’s big tourist jetty. This was a wealthy neighbourhood, despite its proximity to industrial shipping areas, and a tolerably sized ferris wheel loomed ahead of them, tempting tourists and their raucous, sugar-loaded children.

Along the river to their left, shadowy shapes haunted the water, the vague outlines of distant cargo ships. On shore, the sculptured, unnatural mountain shapes of cargo docks, shipping containers and warehouses.

The docks were always a potential hub for crime. Bigger ships could never be fully inspected for illegal freight, and smaller ships could sneak in and out without any identification at all.

It was odd for the Widower to be closer to the jetty, though, surrounded by tourists and sparkling lights, party-goers and late night revellers. It was odd for him to be seated on the edge of a hotel building, a dozen or so stories in the air, but watching the spectacles with idle curiosity.

This time, Adam didn’t sneak up on him. He strongly suspected the Widower had been waiting for him.

‘Have you been?’

‘Where?’ Adam hadn’t expected a question. He hadn’t expected the Widower to ever be relaxed.

The Widower nodded towards the ferris wheel. One leg dangled over the edge of the rooftop, the other folded under him. He seemed genuinely interested, in spite of the metallic voice-modifier.

‘No.’ Adam hadn’t, had never thought about it. Expeditions, field trips, playful days out had never been a part of his childhood, or even his life now. He left that for normal people. ‘You?’

‘Once or twice.’

The admission was so blatantly contrary to Adam’s expectations that he couldn’t answer, couldn’t think of what to say for the next few minutes. He often wondered about the Widower’s civilian identity, but he’d never imagined it so casually referenced.

’Was it so terrible it requires a vigilante intervention?’ He managed finally.

‘Absolutely.’ The Widower replied. ‘The prices are criminal.’

Adam winced, and the Widower might have sighed, chin lifting into the air.

‘Have you heard of the River Wolf?’ He asked.

Adam frowned. ‘The freighter?’

It was used to smuggle cargo, reportedly. Adam had heard stories, nothing he could prove one way or the other. Nobody had evidence that the damn thing existed, and the latest rumour was that it was a ghost ship, nothing more than a wraith in the long memories of folk downtown.

‘I think I found it.’ The Widower continued, placidly. ‘The Romulus.’ He gestured towards the murky shapes in the distance.

Adam didn’t know it. He didn’t know anything about ships, but he knew the River Wolf had a reputation for brutality and barbarity. He didn’t much like the idea that this was the Widower’s next intended target.

‘Congratulations.’ He said. ‘You must be thrilled.’

‘Delirious. I’m going to pay it a visit.’

‘Naturally.’ Adam paused. ‘Why?’

‘Heard word they’re moving uranium out on that thing.’ The Widower said slowly. ‘Sounds like my kind of shit-show.’

‘Really?’ Adam wrinkled his nose, half-nervous, half-grim. ‘I didn’t realise radioactive materials were on your ticket.’

Another silence. The Widower was waiting, and Adam wanted to tell him not to go. He wanted to tell him to forget it altogether.

‘It wouldn’t be easy, taking it off the ship.’

‘No.’ The vigilante allowed. ‘It wouldn’t.’

‘Some might say it would be impossible.’

‘Some might say that.’

‘They might go so far as to say it’s a fool’s errand.’

‘They might.’

Adam scowled at the side of the Widower’s head. He’d chosen an inopportune moment to become an idiot.

‘Remind me again why you’re going?’

_Remind me again why I’m still sitting here?_

‘I’m not taking it.’ The Widower responded, amused. ‘It’s not like I could stroll off the boat with a batch of yellowcake. I’m just going to find out where they’re selling it, and send someone else to sort them out.’

Adam’s relief was startling. He shouldn’t care this much, about a stranger. It wasn’t sensible.

‘Sure.’ He shrugged. ‘Just a straightforward perusal of the ship’s records, then.’

The Widower stood, stretching, balanced easily on the edge, and teased; ‘It almost sounds as though you doubt my capabilities.’

‘I wouldn’t be so bold.’ Adam copied him, permitting a smile that showed his sharpest teeth. ‘Though it almost sounds like you need a thief, not a vigilante.’

‘Is that right?’

 

 

 

_Idiot._

He was starting to wonder if he’d acquired brain damage, in that first fight with the Widower. He hadn’t felt it at the time, but boy, was it starting to seem likely.

The Widower knew where the ship was. He took Adam with him, close enough to smell the river and see the figures moving about on deck, patrolling, probably, and the gentle, immense motion of the crane hanging overhead.

The vigilante had a rough idea of the ship’s layout, and this he shared. He had suspicions about where the manifest (and the less legal, more useful information) might have been kept. If he had doubts about Adam’s abilities, he entirely failed to mention them.

Adam knew he could get in. He had certain, probably egotistical confidence he could make it back out.

He wasn’t so sure he’d survive what the Widower rather vaguely labelled “the distraction.”

The plan split them up. The vigilante would take the attention, and the gunfire. Adam would slip in unnoticed, peruse the lower decks, and retrieve the log. If he escaped without acquiring decorative bullet holes, it would generally be considered a success.

They went for the ship.

He didn’t see what the vigilante did, but he heard it. Explosions, first, then rapid, overlapping, extensive gunfire. It would be ridiculous if it didn’t bring the entire city police department down on top of them.

As expected, the inside of the ship was damp, somewhat unpleasant, and hardly simple to navigate, but the Widower’s inferences hadn’t been inaccurate. There was a manifest on the bridge, barely guarded by two watchmen who were reluctant to miss out on the fight outside. The more lucrative find was in the chief mate’s quarters - too hot to be kept under the Captain’s bed - a small unmarked volume of dates and times and hastily abbreviated contents. Adam identified the latest entry, foolishly including an atomic number, quantity, value and destination, and took the book.

He wasn’t sure what the purpose was, of this… To pacify the Widower, to stop him from getting himself killed? To impress him?

What was his motivation, anyway? The cargo was headed offshore, and the failure of authorities could easily see it slip through the fingers of the law. The Widower seemed to view his actions less like interventions, and more like… obligations. Maybe he really was crazy.

But he was crazy in favour of justice, which was annoyingly admirable.

Adam was taking the stairs back up towards an exit when someone opened the door ahead of him. He swung round the corner first, unwittingly halting at the sight of a cat mask, and Adam took advantage of his hesitation to launch himself over the edge of the stairway.

He managed to hook himself under the stairs, not dropping, but not dangling either, and after a moment footsteps clattered down across where he’d been. It was relatively dark inside, despite the lights sunk into the ceiling and the walls, and the crew member had mistaken his jump for a leap. Adam waited until he was far enough down to risk climbing back onto the stairway and continuing upwards, low and quick.

He pushed open the door at the top, instinctively wary, but it wasn’t until he’d taken a few steps across the empty, darkened ground that someone shouted a warning.

He broke into a run.

There was still gunfire, further across the deck, but Adam could hear a gun going off closer, behind him, and the sharp-edged bang as the bullet struck metal nearby.

He kept running, towards the stern, towards the sound of fighting. He didn’t intend to join the combat, but he had his objective, and the Widower was his way off the ship. They’d climbed up the side on webs, and the idea of taking the quick route back down to the water was not striking Adam as strategically advisable. It would ruin the book, at the very least.

He skidded around the edge of a raised platform ringed with railings, and straight into open space. Thirty, forty feet ahead began the stacks of shipping containers above deck, with little bursts of light indicating where amongst the neat rows shooters were waiting, but there were others in plain sight, close to Adam, close enough to recognise his jarring attire.

He ran even as they started to raise the guns, crossing the ten, twenty feet in uncountable time.

There was a gunshot, so loud he almost covered his ears reflexively, and something hit him.

It lifted him off his feet, and the momentum took him a fair distance, because when he hit the ground again (pitching forwards and landing on his elbows) he was behind one of the containers. There was still weight on him, and he was flipped onto his back immediately.

The Widower was above him, an edgeless black mass.

‘You hit?’ He was close. Adam shook his head. ‘How fast do you heal?’

‘What?’ He was heavy. Adam tried not to think about it.

‘How fast do you heal?’

‘How- I don’t know. Normal speed.’ He wasn’t moving. Adam shoved him.

‘Normal speed for what?’

‘I don’t know.’ Adam frowned. ‘Human speed. Normal human speed.’

The Widower pushed himself upwards abruptly, and even though the mask concealed his expression Adam could hear his dismay. ‘ _What?_ Why didn’t you say that?’

Adam shoved him further back, and sat up. ‘You didn’t ask. How fast do _you_ heal?’

The Widower ignored him. ‘Jesus Christ, you don’t heal fast?’ He raised both arms to convey some unidentifiable emotion. ‘What are you _doing_ here?’

‘Trying not to get shot!’ Adam snapped. ‘ _Here_.’ He produced the book, and wished his ears weren’t ringing so badly. He wished the gunfire hadn’t slackened, abruptly, and he wished he couldn’t imagine the figures creeping towards their cover.

The Widower took it, unquestioning, and grabbed his shoulders to spin him around. ‘Run to the railing and jump off.’

‘ _What?_ ’ Adam tried to turn, again, but the vigilante held him in place.

‘Just-’ He pointed, to a stretch of white metal close to the point of the bow. ‘- jump there and I’ll catch you. Don’t… Don’t worry.’

He let go, and sprinted in the opposite direction.

Adam cursed his own stupidity in coming on this crazed raid and bolted for the railing.

He almost didn’t jump. A mental image of the smooth sides of the ship almost deterred him, but he knew if he had to he could catch hold of something, slow his fall. He didn’t know how hard he would hit the water, and he didn’t know if mere “human healing” would withstand it, but he wanted to be off the ship as badly as he wanted to stay out of the river.

He jumped.

The ship curved inwards, markedly, from the tip of the bow, and there was nothing to grab. He was in free-fall, a moment or two, tensing himself to pin drop through the surface of the water, before the Widower struck him again.

He’d evidently jumped further down the ship, slung a web to the crane overhead, and twisted himself into a wide arc around the stern. It was smart, much smarter than jumping straight off and trying to use a web to prevent them from falling straight down. As it was they curved effortlessly around the bow, and gradually slipped down into the water.

Adam sank underneath, resurfaced with a splutter. The side of the Romulus sloped away above them, tall enough to make their location in the water undetectable. It gave him a moment, at least, to identify a suitable place to try and go ashore without instantly being turned to swiss cheese.

The Widower had surfaced a few metres ahead of him, a strange creature in the night and in the water, and Adam indicated a very small, narrow strip of sand a few hundred feet away, below the edge of the dock where it curved into a little inlet for towboats. The vigilante waved acknowledgement (like Adam, probably trying to keep his mouth shut) and disappeared under the water.

It was a long swim. Adam’s clothing dragged at him, and the mask rattled against his cheekbones, but he reached the bank. It was a clearly unintentional drift of sand and gravel, built up over time, and just low enough that they could wait there unobserved until they’d formed a clear plan how to escape notice onshore. The Widower’s webs would help, though Adam wasn’t sure he hadn’t already gone.

He didn’t appear, out of the water or on the coarse cement next to the sand bank. There were endless ripples, from the ship and from the wind snaking down the river, but there was nothing else.

Maybe the suit, like Adam’s jacket, had weighed him down.

Adam scrabbled for a foothold and stood, shin deep in water, staring into the blackness. One or two bobbing shapes were tricks of the light, and when he finally thought he’d seen the Widower it was impossible to say it was definitely him.

He swam out anyway.

He hoped the vigilante had just cleared off. He could have reached the bank before Adam, and decided not to wait. He could have gone ashore somewhere else, and left. He could have done innumerable things that a stranger might have done under the circumstances.

He hadn’t.

Adam caught him around the shoulders, rolled him over in the water, and paddled him back towards land. He’d almost made it. The suit was soaked through, and his mask was still on. Adam dragged him as far up the sand as he could.

He was a kid. There was no telling how old he was, nineteen or twenty, fourteen or fifteen. He was just a kid.

He was _someone’s_ kid. Not like Adam. He _belonged_ somewhere. Someone was waiting for him.

His heart was still beating. Adam couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not. He couldn’t tell if the huge, yawning feeling in his chest was fear or shock.

The claws of Adam’s gloves, even retracted, were glistening red. There were holes in the suit, imperceptibly spilling blood into the water that kept lapping at the Widower’s feet, impatiently, as though it was trying to take him back. 

_Don’t let him die. Don’t let him fucking die._


	13. In vigilante land, that means you're married...

Adam pulled his mask off, crawled over the Widower, and searched for the break in his suit.

Had he been shot, jumping from the ship? Or pushing Adam out of the way? It could have been earlier, and Adam wouldn’t have noticed. It could have been after he’d hit the water, when Adam was too far away to hear.

His claws caught under fabric, and he pushed the Widower’s mask up enough to reveal the pale slash of his lips. It was dark, Adam’s vision was blurred from the water, and the vigilante was dying. He would forgive the intrusiveness, if he survived.

Adam took a breath, tried to remember freshman first aid, and pressed his mouth to the Widower’s.

‘Come on.’ He rocked back, briefly lightheaded, and dragged in more air.

His face was still warm, and Adam could feel a soft, persistent heartbeat where his ribcage brushed the vigilante’s suit. He would be fine, if the inconsiderate bastard would just _breathe_.

A second time, Adam tried to force air into his lungs, holding his jaw carefully with knife tipped fingers. He didn’t know if it was working, if he was doing it properly, if he could succeed when the Widower was obviously bleeding out, until the figure in front of him gave an unexpected, involuntary jerk.

He swiftly replaced his own mask, tipping the Widower onto a shoulder with one hand as he coughed and choked up water. It didn’t sound pleasant, but there was added peculiarity from the unmodified, human timbre of every hard-edged wheeze. He was facing away, but when the worst seemed to pass Adam reached over him to pull the mask back down.

He was still trying, through heavy, metallic panting, to catch his breath, when Adam straightened up out of the water. ‘We need to go.’

They’d be close, if they weren’t already here, and the Widower presumably required some form of medical attention regardless of his healing speed.

He pushed onto his hands and knees with slow uncertainty, and started to stand. ‘Hey, you just saved my life, furface.’

‘You’re still bleeding.’ Adam climbed on the concrete block, scanning the area around them for potential attackers. There was nobody in sight, but they were within the shipyard. It was a maze of containers and vehicles and assailants between them and the barbed-wire crowned fences out. ‘I only prolonged your life.’

He caught the Widower’s reaching hand, helped him clamber up the wall. The injuries didn’t appear to be a significant burden, so possibly the bullets had just nicked him.

‘It’s a long way back.’ Adam had started moving, picking his way across the broad, empty concrete plain towards the maze. ‘Are you going to survive that?’

The Widower followed, tentatively, and then with increasing speed.

‘Sure.’ He aimed his wrist inwards and liberally applied a gauzy layer of web across his abdomen. ‘Cake-walk.’

 _He could have died._ Adam could have seen him die. The dread feeling hadn’t faded from his stomach and throat, but this maniac was as dismissive as ever.

Adam reached the first tower of shipping containers, and the Widower was close behind him, touching the side of a metal box to steady himself.

‘I’m sorry.’ It was a murmur, but earnest. ‘I shouldn’t have brought you.’

Adam slowed, waited for him to catch up.

‘I brought myself.’ He corrected. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have brought _you_.’

‘Maybe.’ The Widower shrugged. ‘Probably not.’

‘Why do you do this?’

Walking next to him, having a conversation, it all felt like some elaborate farce. They’d just jumped ship after a theft and fight, Adam had forced him to keep breathing, and they were in the middle of nowhere likely being pursued by vengeful gun-wielding sailors, yet all Adam could think to do was stroll and chat.

It was too easy, still. Even now. The Widower was too fascinating, and too… unthreatening.

‘Not a lot of people are like me. Like… us.’ He answered, thoughtfully. ‘What else would I do?’

‘What I do.’ Adam suggested. ‘Stay out of it.’

The vigilante snorted. ‘I haven’t seen you doing much of that.’

Adam pointed at his face accusingly. ‘That’s your fault.’

‘Yeah. Well.’ He stumbled, slightly, and righted himself. ‘At no point have I been considered a good influence.’

Adam heard the low drone of an engine, and hastily pushed the Widower in a shadowed gap between containers, but even as it passed he knew they weren’t searching. Clearly the crew had decided that the thieves were dead or gone, which left them a clean shot to the fence and out of the docks.

‘You good?’ He was holding the Widower’s elbow, and there was no resistance. He was _trusted_ , now. The vigilante wasn’t even trying to disguise it.

The response was a fatigue-slow shrug. ‘Five by five.’

'S’go.’

 

 

 

He didn’t sleep.

Violence didn’t surprise him. There was enough that the Wyverns alone had done when he was younger to make it familiar, expected. There was plenty he’d seen, from shadowed corners, rooftops and fire escapes, that he’d accepted as inevitable. He’d just learned to avoid getting involved.

It was unnerving, that the Widower’s potential demise had bothered him so much. The vigilante, like the women Adam had grown up with, was willing, trained, and capable of defending himself. But where the Wyverns might have considered any concern from Adam patronising, inappropriate, the Widower hadn’t been averse.

He hadn’t even been surprised.

He knew he’d won the favour of the thief. What did that mean? Was that why Adam was so uncomfortable?

No, the discomfort was simply because the Widower had almost died. Him, specifically, because Adam had witnessed death before, in more gruesome spectacles, and it hadn’t felt the same.

The Widower was special. Different. Inhuman. The Widower was… a chance of finding out, maybe, what Adam was. His existence offered possibilities Adam hadn’t considered before, like having a family, a friendship, any kind of relationship with someone without them being forced.

It was more than that. He was clever, kind… _moral_.

Too much to lose.

 

 

 

Adam dozed on the train out of the city.

Meeting Lynch was unavoidable. He didn’t _want_ to avoid it. Half-dreamt memories of the farm’s sunset peacefulness were making him wistful.

His bike was leaning against his legs, bruising his knees every time the train went over a bump in the track or rattled around a bend, and it was one solid thump that stirred him at Ronan’s stop. Even through the window, the landscape outside was startlingly different, a sharp contrast to the bleak greyness of the docks the night before, and the forlorn, dense brick facades of Adam’s neighbourhood.

It was quiet, again. Adam was the only one who stepped off the train, wheeling his bicycle, and he was the only one who navigated out of the station.

No sign of Lynch, yet, in the narrow square of gravel that constituted the carpark. No sign of people at all, after the train had noisily departed. He sat on the bench, resting the bike next to him, and waited.

They hadn’t agreed a time. There were two trains in the morning, on a Saturday, and possibly Lynch had expected him to arrive later, close to lunchtime.

He wasn’t sure what to do. There was a crumpled piece of paper closed into his textbook, with Ronan’s address and phone number scrawled across it in dark blue pen. He’d never used the number… what would he have to say to Ronan Lynch?

He still wasn’t sure he should. Perhaps Ronan was just late, and Adam would seem rude. He had the bike, after all, and he could cycle to the house.

It was only a few metres from the carpark before he turned back, a gently rolling return to his lonely bench. What if Lynch had forgotten, and Adam showed up unexpectedly? He had better call, and if Lynch was confused, he’d just catch the train home again.

He dialled the number, carefully, and held his breath.

The mobile rang, rang, rang out. Adam slumped into the bench, more embarrassed than before. Lynch had forgotten. Or maybe he just didn’t want to think about it.

Or maybe he was driving, and he’d be offended when he found the nagging missed call.

Another five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. Adam scratched the backs of his hands, willing them to stop itching. The train had arrived half an hour earlier, swiftly left again, and there had been no sign of people in the station since, on the road beyond, or in the surrounding fields.

Adam took the bike to the edge of the road, told himself not to be so juvenile, and pushed off.

The countryside was too perfect, too pretty to allow lasting uneasiness. He’d deal with whatever social awkwardness the Lynches might throw at him when he reached the farm, but for the moment he was calm. Grass grew thick around the fences bordering the streets from the train station, so Adam cycled on the road, but he didn’t encounter any vehicles. It was as though the entire countryside was deep in slumber.

The wooden gate at the top of their driveway was closed, latched but not locked. Evidently Ronan hadn’t set out to pick Adam up.

He rolled the bike down the first hill of the drive. It wasn’t so warm, today, and the slopes didn’t catch him by surprise, so he was significantly less dishevelled by the time he reached the front door. The silver BMW glistened in the drive, but the house was silent.

Adam left his bike by the stairs and knocked on the door.

It took seconds, this time, for Matthew Lynch to pull it open. His forehead was creased into a frown, and Adam felt a reflexive burst of nerves. He wasn’t expected, wasn’t welcome.

‘Adam.’ Matthew’s expression melted into hopefulness. ‘You’re here.’

‘Hey.’ Adam glanced over his shoulder, at the darkened hallway, the empty living room. ‘Am I-’ _Late? Early? Unwanted?_

‘Here, here.’ Matthew waved him over the threshold, face flushed. ‘Ronan told me to call you, but I… I wanted you to come.’

He led Adam into the dining room, where the table was haphazardly (and disinterestedly) spread with school books, sheets of paper, pencils.

‘Is something wrong?’ Adam glanced over the homework curiously. Ronan had told Matthew to call… to cancel, probably. Maybe he wasn’t here. Did Ronan even have his number?

'No.’ Matthew answered swiftly. ‘I mean, yes. He’s sick. Ronan. He’s got… he has food poisoning.’

_Oh._

Adam felt foolish. Then guilty.

‘Drink?’ Matthew asked, and left without waiting for an answer. He returned with soda and cookies, and disdainfully swept aside some of the debris on the table. ‘I didn’t… I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t want to be alone.’

‘No.’ Adam examined him cautiously. How sick was his brother? _Where_ was he? ‘Your parents aren’t here?’

‘They’re away.’ Matthew explained miserably. ‘At a conference.’

If Ronan was ill enough, that left Matthew to do everything, from feeding and managing the farm animals to cooking and cleaning the house. It was little wonder he wanted some company.

‘Did he go to the hospital?’

‘No.’ Matthew shook his head vigorously. ‘He’s upstairs. He’s just… I don’t like it when he’s sick.’

‘Sure.’ Adam considered asking what he was like. Insufferable? Melodramatic? Boring? Was he in pain? Was there anything Adam could do?

‘You could go up and see him.’ Matthew suggested hopefully. ‘I haven’t checked for a while.’

He waited until Adam had gratefully deposited his backpack on one of the chairs before scratching an ear and adding apologetically; ‘You better knock, though. He’s mostly been sleeping.’

Lynch’s room was dark. The lights were off, and the curtains were pulled, casting everything in a faintly blueish gloom.

Adam had knocked, lightly, and a second time with more force, but Ronan hadn’t answered. He’d opened the door anyway, curious and faintly anxious.

It was obvious that he was sleeping. There was an indistinct lump on the bed, blanketed despite the warmth of the room. Adam went closer, padding softly around the bottom of the bed in the direction he suspected Ronan was facing.

Asleep, unquestionably. His mouth was slightly open, and he was almost completely still.

He was curled up on his side, defensively, with one arm holding the blanket around his stomach, and the other tucked under his cheek. It was surprising that he wasn’t disturbed by the heat, but he was also startlingly pale, practically colourless, definitely unwell.

Adam sank into a crouch, and pressed his fingers lightly into Ronan’s higher shoulder. ‘Ronan.’

No response. Lynch was dead to the world. Adam tightened his grip, jostled him slightly. ‘ _Ronan_.’

He stirred, closed his mouth, and instantly rolled his face into the pillow with a mumble.

‘Hey.’ Adam wondered if he shouldn’t be in Ronan’s space.

Ronan mumbled something else inaudibly, before he turned from the pillow. ‘Matt shoulda called you. D’you- S’gonna pick you up.’

There were traces of that pleasant scent peculiar to Ronan in the room, on his sheets. Deodorant, maybe? ‘I brought the bike.’

‘Sorry.’ Ronan was slurring, faintly, struggling to blink away fatigue.

Adam shrugged, reluctantly relinquished his shoulder. ‘Your parents aren’t here?’

'Not back ’til Thursday.’ Ronan admitted. He hadn’t moved, yet, to sit up or look around. ‘Jus’ me and Matt.’

'Perhaps you shouldn’t have tried the suppressants.’

He frowned in mock concern. ‘You think? Only ate a dozen or so.’

Adam allowed himself a smile. ‘Matthew wants to know if you need anything.’

‘Nah.’ Ronan glanced at the bedside table, and a solitary, untouched glass of water. ‘Get… Get him to open the lab for you. I left the… things in there.’

Adam nodded, and stood up. He would’ve stayed, if Ronan hadn’t looked and sounded exhausted. He wanted to ask if he could do something more, but it wasn’t as though he was able to drive Lynch to the hospital. The most he could do was call an ambulance, and he didn’t know enough about food poisoning (or enough about Ronan) to know if it was necessary.

 

The mice were in two cages in the laboratory, with a piece of chipboard propped up between them. Directly next to them was a legal pad, with meticulous morning, afternoon and evening checks recorded in cramped, hand drawn columns. The record went back to the previous two mice that Ronan must have returned to the barn. There were clear indications with the first pair that the suppressants had begun to take effect, but evidence was still scant with the second.

Matthew stayed, sitting on the bench, while Adam picked through the notes. He seemed more inclined to avoid the house than to supervise Adam’s activities in the lab.

‘How long has he been sick?’

‘Just since last night.’ Matthew answered uneasily. ‘It seems bad, though. I’ve never seen him so bad.’

Adam thought, unhelpfully, of the hospital. ‘What did he eat?’

‘Dunno. Something. He was fine for a bit and then he couldn’t move and he puked a bunch.’ He shrugged morbidly. ‘Mom and Dad are in New York. He didn’t want them to come back, but I… don’t know. Seems bad, right?’

‘I’m sure he’ll be fine.’ Adam offered weakly, and Matthew made an effort to look mildly reassured.

There were muffled noises, drifting through the half-opened door into the yard, and Adam hesitated.

They were growing steadily louder, and Matthew’s expression cleared the second they both identified it as a car engine. Adam thought; _Who?_ and then with relief; _a doctor?_

Matthew sprinted out the door, leaving Adam to replace the mouse records before he followed.

There was a car, pulled up opposite the BMW. The driver, removing a large cardboard box from the backseat, was immediately, overwhelmingly familiar. He lowered the box carefully to the ground as Matthew dashed forward. ‘ _Declan!_ ’

He reminded Adam of Ronan, of Niall, but he was already more serious than either, and less angular than both. His hair was lighter than Ronan’s, darker than Matthew’s, neatly, modestly combed, and he was dressed in clean, pressed slacks and a button-up shirt, in spite of it being the weekend.

He looked almost prepared to hug Matthew, but at the last second spotted Adam trailing his his wake. ‘Who are you?’

The open hostility was enough to convince Adam to keep his distance, even as Matthew seized his distracted brother.

‘It’s Adam.’ He explained, with significant intensity of _duh_.

Declan’s gaze skated sideways, in an attempt to either remember Adam or the reason he was supposed to remember him, but he rapidly gave up. ‘Right. Morning.’

He detached his brother gently. ‘I brought your present. You can’t leave it here alone, though.’ He gestured to the box, and Matthew fell on it with enthusiasm. Declan inspected Adam again, with barely less displeasure. ‘Where is he, then?’

‘God, Declan!’ Matthew lifted a puppy into the air, so small and fluffy Adam initially mistook it for a toy. ‘He’s so _cute_.’

‘She.’ Declan answered. ‘Ronan?’

‘Upstairs.’ Matthew replied, adjusting his grip on the puppy in order to display it, gleefully, to Adam. ‘In bed.’ He focused on Declan long enough to frown, but whatever he intended to say remained unspoken. Declan nodded curtly towards Adam and strode towards the house.

‘You’re not allergic, are you?’ Matthew ambled over, puppy cradled in his arms. ‘Declan said he’d get us a dog for holidays.’

‘She’s adorable.’ Adam observed cautiously. He raised a hand, very slowly, towards the dog, measuring the likelihood of a reaction similar to the mice. The puppy sniffed him, more and more curiously, but didn’t seem alarmed, and he let himself relax. ‘What are you going to call her?’

‘Dunno.’ Matthew kissed the top of her white-striped head. ‘Something cool.’

 

 

 

Ronan was still awake, hazily contemplating Adam’s dream-like presence, when the door opened and he started anxiously.

‘Jesus, Ronan.’ _Declan, thank God_. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’

 _Rhetorical question._ Ronan let it slide.

A second later and Declan was pulling him into a sitting position.

‘How was the drive?’ Ronan inquired politely.

‘Shut up.’ Declan pulled Ronan’s arm around his shoulders. ‘C’mon, we gotta go.’

They moved to Aurora and Niall’s bathroom, off the master bedroom, and Declan lowered Ronan into the bathtub. He smiled, automatically, at Declan’s exasperation. ‘It’s not that bad.’

‘That’s not what Matthew thinks.’ Declan said tautly. ‘He opened the damn call with “Ronan’s dead!” Gave me a fucking heart attack.’

Ronan laughed, softly.

It had been a shock, in reality. He’d stopped bleeding by the time he’d gotten home, and everything had been under control. There was no blood on the car, none on his clothing, and a fresh piece of bandage over each injury to prevent further damage. There were exit wounds in his lower back, and he’d assumed the healing would progress as effectively as usual.

It still hurt like a bitch… and he’d never really been shot before. Grazed, probably, was the closest he’d ever gotten, but Niall had always assured him that he’d be able to survive a bullet anywhere but the head or the heart as long as he could stop the bleeding.

He botched that, admittedly. Without the cat he would have been fish food.

He hadn’t bothered to check (how would he know, anyway?) and Matthew absolutely hated looking, so he hadn’t realised there was anything wrong until his stomach felt like it was exploding and he’d started vomiting blood. His conclusion was that it might have been something he’d ingested, some toxic shit in the river water, something that would pass. He’d bled clean through the bandages he’d used, too, and at some point in the nauseous, delirious daze he’d had to burn them in the living room fireplace, along with his clothes.

Declan helped him pull off his shirt, still muttering recriminations, and unfolded a black case he’d pulled from under the sink.

Matthew had called their parents, despite Ronan’s resistance, and Niall had suggested there was shrapnel still lodged somewhere in his guts. He’d recommended Ronan try and remove it, given that Matthew was squeamish about flesh and blood, but it was late enough that Ronan couldn’t hold his hand steady. He was afraid, anyway. He didn’t know where to look, or what to look for, or how to handle the pain and the task at the same time.

‘What’s Adam Parrish doing here?’ Declan asked, slightly less aggressively. ‘At the worst time imaginable?’

Ronan felt something break the skin, low on his stomach, and repressed the urge to flinch. ‘School stuff.’

‘School stuff?’ The scalpel dug deeper. Ronan curled his fingers around the edge of the tub, breathed through his nose.

‘Biochem.’ It was an insidious kind of pain. It felt… wrong. ‘Project.’

‘Mm hm?’ Declan was prompting him to speak more, explain, but all Ronan particularly wanted to do was scramble out of the tub and run away.

There were other things, that Ronan could think about, but it was reckless. Declan had always been able to read him too well. The scalpel went in, somewhere else, and he was willing to risk it.

‘You know him?’ He asked, pressing his eyes shut. ‘Parrish?’

Declan grunted. ‘Clever little shit. I don’t trust him.’

‘You don’t trust anyone.’ Ronan pointed out.

There was a pause. Declan hummed sheepish agreement. ‘True. Always seemed sly, though. Not a good person to have sneaking around here.’

‘He’s not sneaking around here.’ The knife withdrew. Ronan could hear Declan take a low breath. ‘He’s scared of cows.’

The answering snort was a satisfying result. ‘You’re joking.’

‘Gospel truth.’ Ronan forced his eyes open. He couldn’t tell why Declan had stopped. ‘What?’

‘You need to turn over.’ Declan said flatly. ‘It must be in too deep.’

Ronan shifted, with a great deal of help, onto his knees, and leaned forward. He could hear blood dripping from his stomach onto the porcelain, a soft, oddly musical sound. He could picture it, too, red on white, a perfect little centre-dark droplet.

Nausea rose in his throat as the scalpel dug into his back, and he pressed his forehead against the surface of the bathtub.

Declan laid a hand on his spine. ‘I brought the dog.’

Ronan almost looked up. ‘Already? How big is it?’

‘Small.’

‘That’s… helpful, thanks. How old?’

‘She’s only two months.’

‘That little?’ Ronan moved, startled, and Declan hissed at him hold still.

‘I want her to get used to you shitheads.’ He explained impatiently. ‘Stop moving.’

‘I’m not moving.’ Ronan wanted to. He felt sick. ‘It’s called breathing.’

There was a starburst of pain from one of Declan’s incisions, and Ronan huffed out a breath. ‘Goddamn.’

He heard his brother mirror the curse, and the pain spread until he had to close his eyes and grit his teeth.

Declan sighed. ‘There’s one.’ An exceedingly soft _dink_ signified the placement of metal on the edge of the tub.

‘Is…’ Ronan opened his eyes to the world spinning, and groaned. ‘Is that it?’

‘No.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Watch your language.’


	14. The Sleepover Paradigm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got drafted. Don't even ask.

‘You’re pissed.’ Declan was helping him climb back into bed, bruised and lethargic. ‘Don’t be pissed.’

Declan frowned at him. It was the reason Ronan had hesitated to call him, the only reason Matthew had been forced to do it after he’d passed out the first time.

‘My kid brother came home with three bullet holes in his stomach, and our parents couldn’t be fucked flying home. I’m gonna be pissed, Ronan.’

‘He didn’t make me go.’

‘Of course he fucking did.’ Declan went for the door, impatient to leave. ‘That’s all he’s ever done.’

 

 

 

It was almost an hour before Declan returned. Adam checked the mice, filled out the log, and followed Matthew onto the verandah, where he attempted to teach the new puppy to sit.

The eldest Lynch brother was observing them for a few minutes before Adam became aware of his presence.

‘How is he?’ Matthew asked, noticing him.

‘Fine.’ Declan said firmly. ‘He’ll be fine. What are you doing for lunch?’

The Lynch laundry room was the prospective habitation for the puppy, and the preparation involved laying down thick quantities of newspaper and removing anything chewable from reach. Adam helped, marvelling that the size of their laundry was practically the size of his living room, while Matthew and Declan planned what to eat for lunch and dinner, and whether and what Ronan was strong enough to stomach. They took the dog with them into the kitchen anyway, and Declan entertained her while Matthew made lunch.

Matthew declared the first sandwiches adequately toasted, and Declan offered to carry some up to Ronan, passing Adam the squirming puppy. The kitchen smelled overwhelmingly of melted cheese, salami and chilli, and Adam didn’t blame her for the excitement.

‘What does your brother do?’ He asked, as the sound of Declan’s footsteps reached the second floor.

‘He’s pre-med.’ Matthew answered. ‘That’s what Mom says. Doctor stuff.’ After a moment’s thought he added; ‘Y’know, the other kind of doctor stuff.’

Declan wasn’t gone for long. Adam wondered if Ronan would be able to eat, if Declan had been able to help him, if he would be bored, upstairs by himself, or if he was still asleep, pale, and fragile.

There were far more toasted sandwiches than there were people to eat them, and Matthew was cheerfully fed chilli-free crusts to the ecstatic puppy as they ate.

‘You’re giving her bad habits.’ Declan observed, making no effort to stop him. ‘Already.’

‘I’m passing them on.’ Matthew corrected. ‘From you to Ronan, Ronan to me, and me to her, and all that.’

Adam furtively noted Declan’s frown, the twitch of annoyance between his brows, the sharp response. ‘I’m not responsible for what Ronan is.’

‘You taught him to break the rules.’ Matthew pointed out. ‘To sneak out. Remember? All those times we’d mess around, middle of the night, with Mom away.’

The reminder seemed to catch Declan by surprise. He grimaced at his plate, silent.

‘All I’m saying.’ Matthew shrugged. ‘You’re a little responsible.’ He indicated the crusts rapidly being inhaled by the dog.

Adam tried to identify what the mood was, around Declan. There was tension, but it was largely self-contained, like Declan was arguing with himself.

He wasn’t, so far, any more opposed to Adam’s presence than his initial hostility suggested. He definitely wasn’t displeased by Matthew. Possibly Ronan’s illness was worrying him. Possibly the long drive after a long week… Adam didn’t know where he’d travelled from, or what he’d been doing there, exactly, to warrant the oddly formal attire. He didn’t look much like a college student to Adam.

There was something…something. Identifying it was complicated by the added strangeness of finding him so familiar, so alike to Ronan and Niall and even Matthew, and yet distinctive in numerous small, significant ways.

 

 

 

Ronan didn’t stir for the rest of the afternoon, and for the most part the conscious Lynch brothers left Adam alone in the lab to stare at mice from a distance of a good six feet. They were bafflingly unconcerned by his lack of supervision near expensive equipment and materials, but in fairness Adam didn’t have an easy way to smuggle them home on his bicycle.

Dinner was fried rice, apparently a Declan specialty. Ronan remained absent, despite the delivery of more food to his room. When Matthew suggested visiting him, sending Adam to keep him company, or showing him the puppy, Declan sternly refused. He needed time to recover, according to the elder Lynch. _Undisturbed_.

Declan wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but neither was Adam. They ate dinner in amenable silence, broken often by Matthew relaying stories from school or complaints about his homework, with which Declan had clearly been attempting to help throughout the afternoon. Adam was sent to the spare room for the night, after Matthew informed Declan he was staying over and accepted no argument to the contrary. He gratefully retired early, with a borrowed copy of Hobbes’ Leviathan.

The spare room, apparently kept ready for unexpected guests, was on the opposite side of the house to Ronan’s, and through a window the cloudless night revealed the back lawn, chicken coops, and fruit trees spreading out from below.

The moon was already high, light slanting directly onto the carpet, when someone tapped on the bedroom door.

It was late, and the house was quiet, but Adam doubted Matthew’s ability to knock gently under any circumstances. He contemplated hiding the book, and decided against it, flicking the lamp on instead, and sitting up a little straighter against the head of the bed. ‘Yeah?’

The door opened, slowly. Ronan’s face appeared, ghostly pale, and his messy, tangled hair. ‘Hey.’

‘Hey.’ Adam sat up further, resisting the urge to abuse his night vision to examine Ronan more closely. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Better.’ Ronan answered. ’Dec said there’s a dog. I wanna see it.’

‘She’s downstairs.’ Adam was already kicking aside the sheets, and sliding off the bed. ‘In the laundry.’

Ronan hesitated, but stood aside to let Adam slink past him into the hall. ‘What’s her name?’

‘No name. Not yet.’ It was easy to navigate the hall, despite the lack of light, but Adam could hear Ronan trailing fingers along the wall behind him.

They reached the stairs, padded downwards. Adam was wearing socks, disquieted by the thought of wandering barefoot through the Lynch house, but Ronan wasn’t. He was in slacks, too, that just barely covered his ankles, and a sweater worn thin, sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

He didn’t smell sick. He smelled strongly of soap and antiseptic. The scent from earlier was gone, no matter how much Adam searched for it.

They reached the laundry, obviously making enough noise to disturb the puppy inside, and Adam heard her scuttle across to the door and summon a rising, tremulous whine.

Ronan rapidly crept closer, brushing past Adam’s shoulder. ‘Is she cute?’

‘Excessively.’

Ronan opened the door, very carefully, and leaned over to scoop up the dog. ‘Jesus.’

Adam followed him inside, watched him cradle the dog, inspect her. ‘Right?’

‘Perfect.’ Ronan murmured. ‘Goddamn. Look at those paws.’

Adam did, warily. ‘Is that good?’

‘She’ll be big.’ Ronan told him, receiving a flurry of puppy-licks on his chin. ‘Massive.’

Adam pulled himself onto the top of a washing machine, as Ronan settled on the floor.

‘Matthew’s wanted one forever.’ He said quietly, letting the dog wiggle towards Adam’s dangling feet. ‘But we weren’t around enough. Dec always comes through, though.’

‘He graduated early.’

‘Yeah.’ Ronan shrugged. ‘He wanted to leave.’ He lifted the puppy, turned her round, scratched her ears softly. ‘He visits, sometimes.’

Declan, despite the appearance of detachment, had once messed around as easily as his brothers did. He’d driven home to take care of them. He’d brought them the dog they’d both wanted. Adam was unforgivably curious about why he’d chosen to leave.

‘You must be close.’

Ronan sighed, drew the dog to his chest.

There were two long shards of moonlight slicing through the window. The pup’s great big paws dislodged bits of newspaper whenever Ronan released her, and she intently nosed her way between the machines and into the corners of the room.

Adam had stopped expecting an answer by the time Ronan actually spoke.

‘Not anymore.’

 

 

 

‘Sorry your weekend got fucked.’ Ronan offered.

Adam, balancing his chin on three fingers, risked a smile. ‘It didn’t. It’s not.’

Ronan looked unconvinced. ‘You allergic?’

He frowned, until Ronan nodded gently at his hand.

Of course, the rash had raised vicious, traitorously visible welts, but Adam had never heard anyone else acknowledge them before.

‘No.’ He shook his head, swiftly. ‘No, it’s… from heat, or something.’

Ronan nodded, again, very slowly, only the faint twitch of his eyebrow suggesting doubt.

‘Did you want some antihistamines?’

‘That depends.’ Adam leaned on his hand and narrowed his eyes. ‘Did you make them?’

Ronan scoffed, offended, but let it slide.

‘Do your parents go away often?’

His eyes traced shapes on the floor, the wall, window, eerily bright. ‘Sure.’

‘So you don’t mind it?’

‘No.’ His voice was a murmur. ‘Not usually.’

The question escaped Adam, inadvertently. ‘Are you alright?’

He wanted Ronan to be alright, to feel better. He seemed strangely childlike, without his parents, without his usual wilfulness. Adam wondered if this was normal, for someone who missed… who _needed_ his family.

Ronan glanced up, almost amused. ‘M’fine, thanks.’ He took a breath, looked at the puppy. ‘I’m hungry.’

 

 

He gave the dog to Adam, bundling the half-dozing heat-pack into his arms, and led the way into the kitchen.

There was a light on, behind the clock face hanging over the fridge, practically a nightlight. Ronan turned on the low lamps over the stove for additional illumination. Adam tucked the puppy into his jacket, carefully, and pulled himself onto the counter.

‘What d’you want?’ Ronan asked, pulling the fridge open.

‘Hm?’

‘Sweet or savoury?’ Ronan pulled out a carton of cream, sniffed it dubiously, put it back.

‘I’m not-’

‘Parrish.’ Ronan interrupted.

‘Sweet.’ Adam yielded. He’d eaten enough fried rice to last a lifetime… or at least overnight. If he was going to ingest anything else, it would have to be pure sugar.

Ronan made a noise of acknowledgement, but Adam couldn’t tell if it was positive or not. 

He asked; ‘You cook at night a lot?’

‘Yeah.’ Ronan replied, pulled a lump of butter from the fridge. ‘You don’t?’

‘I don’t cook.’ Adam admitted. ‘At all.’

For a moment, he had Ronan’s full attention. ‘What do you eat?’

 _Garbage_.

Adam shrugged.

Ronan’s focus moved, to the dog’s face barely visible beneath Adam’s collarbone. He lifted the butter. ‘Nothing to it. Just like chemistry.’

‘Chemistry isn’t that easy for most.’ It wasn’t meant to be a reprimand, but Ronan frowned.

‘For _you_ it is.’ He argued, and Adam snorted.

‘It’s not the same.’ Adam assured him. ‘Trust me.’

It had taken Adam an absurd amount of effort, hours of remedial reading, sleepless nights of memorising information, just to understand the chemistry they’d been teaching when he’d first started at Aglionby. Gillespie hadn’t given him much background knowledge, despite the faded plastic periodic table blu-tacked to the back of the door in the science room.

‘No?’ Ronan was tipping syrup into a saucepan, adjusting the heat. ‘Philosophy, then.’

Philosophy, admittedly, was straightforward. Philosophy was less of an effort and more of a reflex. Adam slid along the countertop until he could lean sleepily against the wall, trying not to jostle the dog. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You make it look easy.’ Ronan said. ‘It must come naturally to you.’

Adam couldn’t tell if he meant it, seriously, or if he was talking out of fatigue and boredom, but he felt heat rising to his face. ‘It’s… studying.’ It was all he ever did. Well, alongside theft. It was what he was best at.

Ronan accepted this explanation, but not without comment. ‘It’s preternatural.’

‘I don’t understand you.’ Adam responded.

There was a moment of silence, Ronan watching the golden mixture rolling in the silver saucepan. ‘Nothing to understand.’

Persisting was risky, possibly even insulting, but Lynch was an almost unbearable point of curiosity. Adam wanted to know what it was that was so unusually fascinating about him.

‘You could be the best.’ Adam said, finally. He shared enough maths, science, even tech classes with Ronan to know it. It probably wouldn’t even take him much energy to snatch the highest grades from Adam’s reach, but he just… didn’t.

‘I couldn’t.’ He didn’t look at Adam, didn’t look up. ‘I don’t care enough.’

It was incredible. All of that skill and knowledge so dangerously close to realisation, and Lynch willing to dismiss it all.

‘What do you care about?’ Carefully asked, no emphasis that could make it sound mocking.

‘This.’ Ronan answered, but he didn’t move. _Cooking_ , Adam thought, then sheepishly; _home_. ‘I don’t know- I’m not sure what else there is. For me, I mean. I’ve never really… wanted to leave.’

Why would he want to go?He already had all of the things Adam had imagined he wanted - financial security, brilliance, family… and the added advantage of not giving a damn about the opinions of the people watching him.

‘What about you, though?’ Ronan’s voice broke into his thoughts, brisk and direct.

Adam shrugged, bought himself time to think of an answer. It was an ugly thing to admit. It was… embarrassing. He wanted wealth, recognition, normality. He wanted an identity that wasn’t secret, illegal or alien, or obscure and undesirable. He wanted to be something different, as badly as he hated admitting it.

Ronan moved suddenly, pouring his mixture onto a tray, but as the concoction settled and he took the pan to the sink he prompted Adam with a curious look.

‘I want to know the truth.’

‘About what?’ Ronan’s eyes were diamonds in the moonlight.

‘About everything.’

 

 

‘And you think science has the answer?’ The eyebrows, ever sardonic, lifted. ‘Or philosophy? Or some hybrid lovechild of both?’

‘I don’t know that there is an answer.’Adam countered swiftly. ‘Or answers. But there might be patterns to find.’

‘Would that be enough?’

‘No.’ His throat was dry. Ronan was doing his usual trick, making Adam feel self-conscious, _seen_. ‘But how could I do nothing?’

‘You couldn’t.’ Ronan concluded, softly. ‘You want it too much.’

He’d made honeycomb, cooling rapidly on the countertop. It appealed despite Adam’s lack of hunger. They sat on the floor in the living room, blanketed in darkness, to eat it. Adam felt like he’d regressed to some fantasy in childhood, the times when he’d wondered about the other kids’ sleepovers, what it might be like to have a friend, the way Ronan had Gansey, the way normal children had each other.

It wasn’t the same, clearly. Ronan didn’t know him, only had him here for the assignment, but… candy in the middle of the night. And someone asking Adam what he wanted, who wasn’t a school board board official peering over his glasses at a weedy, unimpressive Gillespie kid.

He doubted the value of honeycomb on a weakened constitution, but Ronan appeared unfazed.

‘Can I ask you a question?’

It was too dark for Adam to see Ronan’s face, but he nodded in response anyway, mouth sticking from the sugar. ‘Mm.’

‘How old were you when- when the- when your parents-’

‘Oh.’ Adam waved off his discomfort, untidily. ‘A baby.’

‘A baby.’ Ronan repeated. ‘Jesus.’

‘It’s fine.’ It wasn’t, particularly, but Adam was largely past that. ‘It’s normal.’

‘Normal.’

‘I mean…’ He shrugged again. ‘I’m used to it.’ Probably he should have constructed an actual explanation for their death, but now it was too late and too dangerous to improvise.

‘I’m sorry.’

The darkness stifled most of his discomfort, his reluctance to admit anything compromising. He wanted to describe it. He wanted Ronan to know. ‘I don’t remember them.’

‘At all?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Do you have pictures?’ Ronan picked up another piece of honeycomb. Adam could just see his knuckles through the gloom.

‘None. I don’t know what their names were. Or where they came from, or if they… I don’t know anything about them.’ He’d hated not knowing for so long that it was a relief to barely care now, to be able to say it and feel nothing but the mildest frustration.

‘You don’t have a birth certificate?’ Ronan was leaning on the sofa, head tipped back. Adam imagined he could see his throat.

‘Nothing.’

‘But you’ve tried looking.’

Adam replied; ‘Nothing to find.’

He could sense the unspoken question. _But what does that make you?_ Even to Ronan, without the details, it would be inexplicable. _Orphaned_ , yes. _Abandoned_ , definitely. _Unwanted_ … undeniably.

After a pause, Ronan said; ‘That’s fucked.’

‘Ha.’

‘Parrish.’ He pressed his cheek to the sofa cushion, looked across at Adam. ‘They missed out.’


	15. All talk

He couldn’t breathe.

_He couldn’t breathe._

When Ronan woke up, the gloom was spinning. The water was gone, but he could still feel the pressure against his skin, the cold through the suit.

‘Ronan.’ Someone touched him, and he flinched. Matthew was leaning over the bed. ‘You okay?’

He sat up slowly, measuring the discomfort spreading from his abdomen, and mumbled; ‘What’s up?’

‘Food.’ Matthew declared, raising a plate. ‘Were you having a nightmare?’

‘Mm.’ Ronan could see the outline of light around his blinds, and the creep of morning through his open door. ‘What time is it?’

‘7.30.’ Matt replied, placing the plate on his bed carefully. He was wearing a buttoned shirt and slacks, and Ronan nearly tipped the plate scrambling to get out of bed.

‘Shit.’ Church. He’d make them late.

‘Declan says you stay here.’

‘What?’ Ronan searched for a clean, civilised pair of trousers. ‘Why?’

‘Because you look like death.’ Matthew sat on the recently abandoned mattress and shrugged.

‘Isn’t that when I should be going to church?’ Ronan commented snidely.

‘That’s after.’ Matthew helped himself to a piece of bacon from Ronan’s plate. ‘And usually you make that trip in a box.’

‘Ha ha.’

‘What were you dreaming about?’

Ronan ignored him, but he gave up the search and stood still by his wardrobe. Adam was still here. The lost boy. They would be the only two people for miles. He was alarmed by the thought.

‘Are you gonna come down to breakfast, then?’ Matthew snaffled a piece of toast. ‘You seem better.’

‘Yeah.’ Ronan answered absently. ‘Thanks for your concern.’

‘I was concerned. ‘ Matt replied sagely. ‘When you were dying. Scared the shit out of me.’

‘I thought you wanted more excitement in your life.’ Ronan teased.

‘Very funny. Not what I meant.’

Matthew had said he was bored, but he didn’t mean he wanted action. He was remarkably disinterested in the Widower or his physical capacity, a fact for which Ronan was freshly grateful.

He just liked people. Parties, games. Even, at dangerous intervals, girls.

Ronan occasionally paused to wonder what _that_ was like.

 

 

 

Declan was reading something on his phone when they got downstairs. Adam was copying out mouse-related observations. They were both at the table, equally engrossed and entirely silent.

Ronan pulled out a chair at one end of the table and slumped into it. ‘Mornin’’

Declan didn’t look up. Adam did.

‘Morning.’ His eyes seemed extra wide, or extra blue. Extra something. He nodded once, as if to acknowledge Ronan’s inquisitive look, and went back to his transcription.

The previous night felt like an odd, delirious dream, and Parrish was still Parrish, a strange, detached, intriguing creature.

Matthew was making noise in the kitchen, and Declan stirred. He stood up without looking away from his phone, calling out; ‘Are you ready yet?’

’Ynghh.’ Was the muffled response.

‘Ronan.’ Declan lowered his phone, just to frown. ‘Don’t climb anything. And no swimming.’ As an afterthought, and probably to piss Ronan off as much as to reinforce the lie for Adam’s benefit, he added; ‘Try not to puke anywhere else.’

His back took the full force of Ronan’s glare, and Matthew breezed past, waving goodbye.

The car - Declan’s - started outside, and gradually the noise receded up the driveway. Ronan ate in silence, desperately curious about Parrish’s thoughts.

‘Why climbing?’ Adam asked unexpectedly. For a moment Ronan thought he was talking exclusively to his notebook.

He gestured vaguely. ‘The fruit trees are loaded at the moment.’

Adam nodded, still without looking up. Ronan stared at sections of his hair that had rebelliously elected to jut out in random directions in spite of an attempt to comb them down.

‘I should pick some.’ He said suddenly. He pushed his chair back and stood up, uneasy with admiration.

‘What?’ Adam finally looked up. ‘Now?’

Ronan was already through the doorway.

He reached the porch, breathless, and looked around uselessly for a basket. There’d be a bucket in the shed he could use, but it took an effort to start moving in the right direction.

The nightmare had been about drowning. He hadn’t remembered, until after he’d made it back home, until he’d been throwing up in the bathroom sink, what it felt like to be choking on water, hungry for oxygen, surrounded by the dark. At the time, other things had been worrying him, and he’d relegated it to a place of limited concern.

He hadn’t expected to dream about it. Or to be scared by it. Or to be scared by Adam Parrish looking intent and familiar at his dining room table, with sleep-tousled hair, rash-red hands and the strange look behind his eyes when Ronan had spoken to him.

Ronan found a bucket and set off, steadily, along the drive. He didn’t have to go far, to reach the trees, but he wanted to be far away.

He’d never wanted to be free of Parrish. Even at the beginning, when more than anything he was shocked by wanting a _boy_ , thoughts of Parrish had still been small gifts.

But _this_ … Wanting him so badly Ronan could almost imagine himself saying something…

This was unacceptable.

 

It was probably the fatigue.

And being alone with him. Properly alone. _‘No one would buy it if Parrish told the story at school’_ alone.

Spending half the night learning about him, listening to his voice hadn’t helped.

And maybe even nearly dying had made some small kind of contribution.

He was halfway down the driveway before he picked a tree. He didn’t care about leaving Parrish in the house. He could _have_ the damn house if he wanted it.

The tree wasn’t large - none of them were - so Ronan settled for sticking his foot in the fork and leaning back against the trunk, idly selecting apples from within arms’ reach.

He thought about Adam’s hair, cheekbones, eyes. The way he talked, measured about his obsession with knowledge, and impassive about being abandoned.

Abandoned. Who could leave a baby? Who could have left Adam?

It seemed unbelievable that his parents might not have been brilliant, too. How did Ronan imagine them? Workaholics, like their son. Sharp witted, probably not hugely sociable. Proud, at the very least, of a child who was the best in nearly all of his classes in a school that was one of the top-ranked in the state.

Ronan had stopped picking apples. He stared across the field next to the tree, instead, at the green hill sloping down towards the river. What had they done? Left him at a hospital? On the doorstep of a church?

He didn’t have a birth certificate. Who had given him a name? Why, when he talked about being adopted, did he never mention having adoptive parents? Who had adopted him?

Something appeared in Ronan’s periphery with an accusing yelp.

It was the puppy. The night before, during their conversation, Ronan had decided to call her Lúthien, but he’d forgotten to tell Matthew before he’d left.

She pressed her huge paws against the bark a foot or so below Ronan’s shoe, and he stepped out of the tree, crouching to greet her. ‘Hello baby.’

Adam must have let her out, and there he was, standing in the middle of the drive a few metres away.

‘Are you okay?’ He didn’t seem surprised, to find Ronan in a tree, but he didn’t come any closer, either.

_You could tell him._

_please god no please no_

The problem was that Adam was so… acceptable. Not friendly, at all, or _nice_ , but almost… charming, in his strange, clever way.

‘Fine.’ Ronan answered bluntly. ‘Why?’

‘I thought you might have felt sick.’ Adam explained, quirking an eyebrow. Ronan silently cursed Declan. No wonder Parrish was keeping his distance. ‘You sure you’re alright?’

He was so constantly dutiful. Ronan had never realised it before, but Parrish’s approach to the project and to Ronan and the Lynches had always been so dutifully polite. Appropriate. Correct.

Everything he did could be politeness, Ronan reasoned. Every conversation and smirk and sign of affinity could have been nothing more than obligatory pleasantness.

Ronan didn’t think it was, didn’t want to think it was, but he couldn’t… couldn’t risk telling Adam anything.

‘I’m okay.’ He repeated, more gently. He showed Adam the apples at the bottom of the bucket, let Lúthien tentatively sniff and chew a small one. ‘I’ve only got an hour to piss off Declan as much as possible.’

‘Oh.’ Adam said. He stuck his hands in his pockets and smiled. ‘Then let me help.’

 

 

‘Do you mind?’ Adam was balanced, precariously, with one foot on the trunk and one hand wrapped around a branch as he reached for the fruit. ‘Missing church?’

‘No.’ Ronan answered thoughtfully. ‘Not particularly.’ He respected mass. He was used to it. He didn’t even mind the people, some of the time, but he didn’t exactly _enjoy_ it. ‘I’m ambivalent.’

Adam was shoving apples into the pockets of his jumper, and it was beginning to bulge ominously. ’You all seem so committed.’

It wasn’t baffled or indignant. Factual. Interested.

‘It’s habit, I guess.’ Ronan didn’t often think about it. Sometimes… he’d risk the thought that maybe this was part of a plan, somehow. Niall becoming a crusader, and Ronan inheriting the torch.

But that was unbelievably presumptuous, ridiculously egotistical, and there were so many other things about Ronan that seemed like mistakes that it ended up sounding like a shitty explanation.

He didn’t think about it much as a consequence.

Adam let himself down, swinging from a branch, and emptied his pockets into the bucket. Ronan wondered how he could fight crime, bring down Maljević, and nearly die, and still find Adam terrifying.

Parrish patted Lúthien briefly before he climbed back into the tree. ‘Will your brother stay long?’

‘No.’ It wouldn’t be long before the tree was empty. They’d need a shallower bucket for the stonefruit, if they moved on to a different tree. ‘He’ll be back in the holidays though.’ Ronan paused. ‘He seems to like you.’

Adam laughed.

’Seriously.’ Ronan protested, stretching from his position on the ground. His stomach twinned. ‘He said you were annoyingly smart or something.’

‘Annoying?’ Adam still sounded amused. Ronan couldn’t tell if it was genuine or not, but he didn’t much care. Parrish and Declan could dislike each other as much as they wanted and Ronan would be happy with it. ‘Do _you_ think so?’

‘No.’ Another twinge, but this one was distinctly different. Ronan avoided glancing over. ‘Vulcan-esque, maybe.’

‘Like Spock?’ It sounded like he was smiling, which wasn’t a bad sign. ‘Unemotional.’

‘Logical.’ Ronan shrugged. ‘Focused.’ He dropped a handful of apples, sprinting off to catch the puppy as she wandered away.

‘I’ve never heard that before.’ Adam admitted. ‘Most people seem to find me unsettling.’

He was completely unreadable. Ronan couldn’t tell if it bothered him or not. ‘Welcome to the club.’

With impressive composure, Adam looked directly at him, and nodded. ‘Thanks.’

‘Do you?’ Ronan couldn’t stop himself from feeling moderately surprised. He’d always been aware that he wasn’t easy to get along with, socially, but nobody had ever actually _told_ him so. He’d never considered the possibility Adam would feel anything but mildly inconvenienced by him.

‘What?’

‘Find me unsettling?’ Ronan held Lúthien to his chest, very still, watching his companion.

Slowly, trying not to lose a single apple, Adam lowered himself to the ground. He was thinking it over, very obviously, gaze tracking across the ground in recollection. ‘Sometimes.’

Ronan recoiled, involuntarily. He didn’t know how to feel about that. Adam found him unsettling? The ‘please don’t speak to me’ unsettling or the ‘I don’t know how to act around you’ unsettling? Were either of those things not a terrible option?

_No._

‘I don’t mean… in a bad way.’ Adam said swiftly. He straightened up, and then they were just standing opposite one another. Ronan was holding the puppy like a security blanket and Adam had that strange, wide-eyed look again.

_Maybe this is what he looks like when he’s incredibly uncomfortable._

‘I mean different.’ Adam winced. ‘Exceptional.’

Ronan couldn’t find the mental capacity to respond. He stared at Parrish blankly.

‘I can’t… tell…’

Adam gave up on him and lifted the bucket. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’ Ronan said hastily. He wasn’t sure it was. He didn’t know what Parrish meant. He was only aware that there was now an extreme amount of confusion tangled up with his original, unhealthy obsession.

They trudged back to the house in awkward silence, collecting plums and peaches and pears and stacking them carefully on the overloaded bucket.

Ronan wanted to laugh, at that point, helplessly. ‘It surprised me. Gansey just calls me unapproachable.’

‘Oh.’ Adam frowned. He seemed on the verge of saying more, and apparently decided against it.

‘For the record.’ Ronan tossed him a plum. ‘You _are_ unsettling. I guess I’ve just gotten used to it.’

 

 

 

‘How long have you and Gansey been friends?’

‘Huh.’ Ronan twisted on the porch sofa. Adam had the swing, because the puppy was on Ronan’s chest. ‘He started at Aglionby… like three, four years ago.’

‘Really?’ Adam raised his eyebrows at the ceiling. ‘I figured you’d always known each other.’

‘Gansey’s like that with everyone.’ Ronan explained. ‘It’s fucked up.’

‘But you’re his favourite.’

‘His favourite?’

It was true, Ronan knew that, but he was surprised again by Adam being so direct.

He’d been worried, for a long time, that someone would steal Gansey away from him. Especially after he’d just arrived, and he’d been the first person Ronan had found interesting in his entire time at Aglionby. There were others, tolerable enough, but none of them were ever as fascinating.

The concern had faded away, after a while. Gansey hadn’t left, and after Ronan had discovered that Gansey was just as anxious about losing him, he’d felt significantly less worried.

‘D’you like him?’ Ronan asked, and immediately regretted it. _Good call, Lynch. Kamikaze that shit._

‘Gansey?’ Adam sounded appropriately confused. ‘Yeah.’

‘Everyone does.’ Ronan agreed. _Stupid question_.

‘You’re in a league of your own, you know.’ Adam said, with sudden force. ‘That’s what I mean. You and Gansey, you’re different.’

‘Are we?’

Adam’s hand, curled around the rope of the swing, was lined with narrow, raised welts. Ronan couldn’t stop staring.

‘Gansey thinks you belong with us.’ He said vacantly. The rash was so distracting. It looked painful. Ronan wondered what he could offer Adam to make it better. ‘In a different league.’

That was what Gansey thought, and he had since before Ronan had admitted to anything. Parrish’s honesty was kind of contagious.

Adam didn’t answer. He was watching Ronan, expression blank.

 _You should tell him you agree_.

What would Adam care? His life’s goal wasn’t to fit in with Gansey and Lynch, the Aglionby antisocial brigade.

Ronan smiled, and Adam, wryly, smiled back.

‘Best of luck saying no to him.’


	16. Bantering with Criminals, a handbook

There was a jewellers on Grammar Avenue. Adam had examined it from every angle, planned the heist down to the very last detail. It was a double storey building, with steel bars on each window and metal barricades behind every door, but the security system ran almost entirely from wiring, and that was simple enough for Adam to decipher once he obtained access to the building through the second floor bathroom air ducts.

He had to dismantle the fan, but in the grand scheme of things it wasn’t particularly difficult.

His intentions were moderate. He didn’t plan to take much, and nothing big. A few gems, mostly rubies, which were prolific and portable amongst the displays. Necklaces, and rings. Some were gaudy enough to inspire a small shudder, and he couldn’t bring himself to take them in spite of the larger jewels inset in the gold.

There was a tiara atop a black velvet mannequin head. Adam took that, entertained by the mere prospect of Blue’s reaction. There were a couple of fairly pretty diamond bracelets, finely jointed. He took them too.

A single ring caught his attention, held it longer than acceptable. Twisted silver, delicately braided with aquamarine gemstones all the way around.

The winking pale jewels reminded him of Ronan. The celtic pattern surrounding them hardly helped.

He lifted the ring, carefully, held it in his hand. It was a woman’s ring, undeniably, and it wasn’t as though he could just give it to his lab partner. He was stealing it, first of all, and that was entirely without considering how affronted Ronan would be by such an act.

He’d given gifts to the couple of girls at Gillespie who had seemed cautiously interested in him. They’d always seemed to appreciate receiving them, but none of them had been stolen, and none of them had been jewellery. Chocolate, mainly, or flowers.

Ronan would… It was out of the question.

Adam took it anyway.

Most of it went easily into his pockets, carefully buttoned down for security, but the tiara proved problematic. He refused to yield it back to the shop, and climbed back out of the small gap he’d managed to make in the bathroom wall.

Lynch hadn’t been at school. Partially he stayed at home to watch over Lúthien, partially to continue his recovery, but mostly, it seemed, to irritate his older brother. He’d been unnecessarily apologetic about missing their biochem labs, but he was singlehandedly completing their work by making observations on the mice and continuing the treatment.

Gansey had located Adam at lunch each day since Monday, clearly disappointed by his friend’s absence. He’d even stayed at the Lynch farm on Tuesday night, and driven back for school in the morning, just to alleviate some of his depression.

Adam had spent most of the day irrationally convinced that Gansey was carrying the scent of Ronan with him.

It was purely instinctive. He couldn’t classify his response to Lynch as affection, or even attraction. Consciously, he wasn’t able to grasp the reason behind Ronan’s apparent importance. Thoughts of him just lingered, breaking through when Adam didn’t have anything else to focus on.

He dwelled on thoughts of Gansey with more intent. Gansey, who talked with everyone he passed in the hall, without the self-consciousness that appeared to assail everyone else. He didn’t demonstrate any of the reluctance Adam felt, approaching their classmates, other students, even the teachers. Gansey didn’t seem to perceive any lines of cliques or popularity or intellect.

More often than sensible, Adam found himself wondering if Gansey was actually human.

Probably Gansey just didn’t comprehend the possibility of social failure. He was effortlessly sociable, because there was nothing he needed to fear, nobody he needed to compete with, none of his dignity at risk.

Why befriend Lynch, then, almost the complete opposite? Ronan disregarded everyone with the same ease with which Gansey welcomed them.

There had to be something else on his mind, Adam thought. It repeatedly occurred to him that Ronan must have formulated an understanding of incredible proportions, about something… chemistry, even philosophy, that he was determined to keep to himself. How else could he be so content? He had family, the farm, and intellect, but Adam couldn’t imagine that it could be enough, enough of a _purpose_.

Maybe it was religion.

Adam couldn’t relate, but he understood the power of faith, especially when mixed with brilliance and reason.

He’d just climbed off the fire escape of an apartment building, gaining access to a line of rooftops to traverse with relative simplicity back towards home, when something struck his shoulder.

He dropped to a knee, defensively, but was immediately hauled off balance and fell on his ass.

It hadn’t been particularly violent, and it was for that reason alone that he didn’t bolt when a figure approached from behind him, but turning to get a better view gave Adam a clear view of the white line stretching back from his shoulder.

‘What are you doing?’ The Widower was childishly, unabashedly amused. ‘More jewels?’

Adam smirked in challenge. ‘Should you be out?’

The vigilante shrugged, dark shoulders against a glowing skyline. He offered a hand to help Adam up. ‘Right as rain.’

Wednesday night. Five days since Adam had seen him take more than one bullet. It would be an impressively swift healing rate, if he _was_ completely fine.

He was close enough that Adam could reach out and touch the suit, anyway. Even through his gloves he could feel three separate raised sections, where the fabric had been mended or spliced. He sounded fine. He looked fine, as much as he looked anything behind the silver and black mask. The Widower seemed unperturbed.

‘By rights, I should make you put everything back.’ He continued, playfully.

Adam grinned. ‘As if you could.’

‘Stopped you just now, didn’t I? You’re getting lazy.’

‘Only because there’s no real threat.’

‘Pfft.’ Even distorted, the noise was disdainful.

‘I brought you a gift.’ Adam added, permitting a truly terrible idea to guide his hand. ‘You know, get well soon type of thing.’

‘How considerate.’ The Widower cocked his head, curious or sarcastic, it was difficult to tell.

Adam conjured the tiara and presented it with a small bow. ‘For you.’

‘For me?’ That was definitely laughter. ‘How did you know?’

‘It’s obvious.’ Adam responded. ‘My only concern was that it would be too small for your immense head.’ He delicately raised the tiara, and the Widower obligingly dipped his head.

When he lifted his chin again, black mask bafflingly adorned with the sparkly decoration, Adam had to stifle a snort of disbelief.

He wasn’t sure how his life had reached this point.

Admittedly, he’d never been normal, but convincing a vigilante (his natural enemy) to wear stolen jewellery was beyond the degree of absurdity he would ever be able to expect.

The Widower lifted the tiara, turned it around and rested it on top of Adam’s hood. It sat askew because of the narrow triangles at the top of his mask, but his companion seemed completely satisfied. ‘Who wears it best?’

‘Hardly a question.’ Adam hummed, ducking to the side and spreading his arms demonstratively. ‘Everything looks better on me.’

The Widower watched him move, head tipped, but didn’t make an active reply.

It was a relief, to see him. Adam felt helplessly in the grip of elation. He would be fine, then. He wasn’t exactly invincible, but he’d have to be reasonably close.

Adam wondered what he was, wondered how he could find out. Wondered if the Widower really favoured him enough just to tell him.

He felt _triumphant_. The spider sought him out, would grant him the freedom to steal what he wanted. Adam had succeeded in winning over one of the (contrary to his own remarks) single greatest threats that existed in the city.

‘What do you spend it all on?’ The Widower asked finally, still feigning admiration of Adam’s headpiece.

‘Hm?’ Adam slouched onto a stack of planks covered by a tarpaulin. ‘Rent.’

‘Fuck.’ Delivered lightly, with humour. ‘Do you live in a palace?’

Adam shrugged cheerfully. Realistically, his apartment could never be compared with a palace. A fortress, maybe, but never a palace.

‘Food.’ He added, adjusting his gloves. ‘And my hair, obviously.’

‘Obviously.’

‘What about your eyes?’ The Widower inquired. He was clearly in a good mood, suggesting he’d already gotten in one or two fights before encountering Adam.

‘Eyedrops?’

‘Aren’t they, like, contacts?’

‘Contacts?’ Adam pointed at him violently, pretending to take offence. ‘These are my eyes, you bastard. I grew them myself.’

‘No.’ The vigilante leaned closer, silver eyes squinting mockingly. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Then screw you.’ Adam glared at him cheerfully.

‘Do you have whiskers too?’

‘Why?’ Adam leaned up to close the gap between them. ‘Would that bother you?’

‘No.’ The spider said abruptly. ‘Why should it?’

They were still for a few seconds, inches from each other. Adam couldn’t tell what he was waiting for… he wasn’t willing to think about it.

He felt the explosion before he heard it - the vibration through the concrete beneath his boots, through the planks under his legs - and the Widower snapped upright as the noise hit them. He was already sprinting for the edge of the rooftop, already moving towards the sound, by the time Adam had snatched the tiara off his own head and shoved it back into a pocket as securely as possible.

The Widower leapt from the roof into the open, using a web to swing across the street, but Adam had to settle for using the fire escape in order to reach the ground.

 

 

The offices of Gages, Gages, Emmerson and Stubbs had clearly been the focal point of the blast. An intriguing Asian fusion place underneath the law firm had also borne a lot of the damage, but buildings on either side and half the street looked similarly blackened and pockmarked with rubble.

Adam arrived on foot, through an alleyway, and climbed the building across the street. He couldn’t see the Widower, but a few streets away there were the flashing lights of numerous police cars and the howl of sirens. What was left of the building looked relatively deserted, but the electricity had clearly gone down or been shut off, and the only visible people were bystanders on the street, many who had tumbled somewhat tipsily from a nearby bar.

The lights appeared around a nearby corner, and Adam ducked down, sensing he should just bail like the Widower apparently had, when the latter appeared out of the skeleton of the fallen structure in a rush of air and dust and calmly deposited a figure on the ground.

A lawyer?

Adam peered closer, from his vantage point.

No, a cleaner.

It was incredible they’d managed to survive-

In a single startling blur of light, something else arrived in the midst of the spectacle and collided with the Widower, and both objects disappeared sideways into the shell of the building next door.

Adam blinked. Frowned. Blinked again.

The onlookers were scattering with a smattering of loud uneasiness, the cleaner absorbed into their midst, and the vigilante reappeared, sprinting through the debris towards the open, and pursued by what could roughly be described as a large man.

The first police car had nosed through the crowd, close enough that Adam could see the occupants through the windscreen. The large man paused, lifted a hand, and the car exploded.

This time the screaming was instant, overlapping the blast. Adam flinched below the edge of the roof, automatically identifying his closest route out, as high as possible, out of the path of whatever the hell _that_ was.

But the Widower was down there.

He risked lifting his head. There were chunks of dented metal from the car widely distributed across the area he could see, and the chunk where the car had been was smoking liberally and flickering with flame. The large figure, definitely in the shape of a man, but considerably bigger than one should be, was in the middle of the road, attention fixed on the slow movement of the Widower, circling him with wary fascination.

 _Idiot_.

Adam took a breath, held it, and forced it out. Another non-human? An alien? Nothing like Adam. Nothing like the Widower. Where did they all come from?

The vigilante shifted rapidly, evading the figure as it reached for him, and webbed its arm to a nearby light-pole.

The light-pole, swiftly, came down, and the Widower sidestepped it, letting it fall between them.

Adam couldn’t tell if they were having a conversation, or examining each other in silence. Sirens and smoke filled the air, and the bystanders had cleared off, leaving the opponents alone.

The Widower dodged again, but this leap seemed to be a bid to exit the fight. A web caught the edge of the rooftop next to Adam’s and the Widower was suddenly there, hurdling the border and turning to look back down into the street.

Adam willed him to leave, but he doubted it would happen.

He didn’t expect the other combatant to arrive a moment later, by some power of flight that stirred the smoke into spinning clouds, and forcing the Widower to retreat across their cluttered new arena.

He could jump again, Adam thought, but how far and how fast would this thing be able to follow him?

He could run. He should run.

He didn’t.

He engaged the thing again, relying heavily on the webs to try and slow it down. Closer up, Adam could see it was mainly covered by a long coat above black trousers and a sweater or jacket. Oddly, it resembled a man less because of the unexpectedly ordinary clothing, and it was at least twice the size of the Widower. The shoes, or feet, were solid metal, silver but not bright. The hands appeared to be the same, and at least part of the head that Adam could see.

The Widower’s assault didn’t fail completely. He pinned one of the thing’s great limbs, made a decent effort to halt another, and when his opponent wrenched itself free and swatted the Widower aside like a moderately annoying insect it came as an unpleasant surprise.

Adam watched the Widower hit the ground, roll onto his feet and straighten up, lifting one arm to his stomach.

There was a gap between the buildings of about five metres, easy enough to jump, if someone was feeling reckless or outright insane.

Adam must have been both.

He sprinted for the edge, and threw himself off, curling up to stay high. It seemed like a long time before he landed, springing off his feet and rolling into a crouch, but when he did everything seemed still and remarkably calm.

He was separated from the Widower by the figure in the coat, but it barely acknowledged him before proceeding towards the vigilante.

The spider was already into a defensive manoeuvre when Adam leapt onto the creature’s back. He dug every single one of his claws into its neck, under the collar of the jacket, and something gave way. It twisted, and Adam could see the Widower breaking into a run, and the next second the rooftop had vanished.

Some kind of propulsion system, irrefutably. Powerful, if the force with which they were rocketing upwards was anything to go by. Gravity alone was weakening Adam’s grip, and the only traction he could get on the coat was a the toe of his boot shoved into one oversized pocket.

He felt his hood slip back, and the wind catching and dragging at his hair. Something grazed his shoulder - a huge arm, attempting to dislodge him - and when he looked down to try and estimate a rough height from the ground all he could see were blurring lights. They were moving sideways as well as up, and something was glinting through Adam’s watering eyes. He thought the head was metal too, but only in part, and the neck felt soft and fleshy.

Another swing brushed his ribs, but his claws were slipping anyway, and he couldn’t tell what was beneath them by the blurry shapes below.

He lost his grip, clutched momentarily at the billowing folds of the jacket, and fell.


	17. Embarrassing friend-dad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am... excited. There are...   
> Plans.

He fell ten, fifteen feet, not quite straight down, and his arm caught on something. Or rather, something caught on his arm - the Widower, being dragged in the wake of the metal creature by a single line of web. The momentum nearly dislocated Adam’s shoulder, and it _hurt_ , but he was still dangling unpleasantly in the air and he clutched the vigilante with his other hand.

There was weight in the opposite palm, his fingers were locked, but he couldn’t remember grabbing anything, or tell what he might have clutched at during the fall.

They were starting to descend again, still moving across the city, as the robot (or cyborg, or whatever the hell it was) prepared to land. Still too high to drop without breaking all of Adam’s bones.

It occurred to him that if they didn’t get free of the thing now, they’d be in the same situation when they landed. It also occurred to him that the Widower was crazy enough to want that.

They dropped lower. The rooftops were practically within reach. The Widower showed no sign of letting go of either the web or Adam.

He could have been injured, by the initial, unceremonious clotheslining. That was Adam’s lingering, unsettling fear. He was too stupid to back off either way.

Adam grabbed the vigilante’s shoulder with his better hand, and dragged himself upwards, pulling his aching arm from the Widower’s grip and lunging for the web.

He heard a noise, half-lost on the wind, probably a protest, and then they were both dropping, far more sharply. The Widower caught him in midair, dragging at him, and they hit the ground.

More accurately, the spider hit the ground. Adam landed on top of him, and rolled off as they slid across the concrete. He was wheezing, in spite of the padded impact, when he saw the Widower stagger upright and towards the edge of the roof.

Adam clawed his way onto his knees, wincing. He felt the object, something round and metallic, slip from his fingers as he took a sprinter’s start to tackle the Widower back to the ground.

There was a huff of general distress, when he landed, followed by an impatient growl. ‘Get the hell off.’

‘Stay the hell down.’ Adam had a knee between his shoulder blades, one hand curled around a wrist.

‘I need to find-’

‘You need to use your brain.’ Adam flicked the back of his head lightly. ‘If it’s intact.’

The Widower twisted, throwing off Adam’s balance and clutching for his jacket in retaliation, then they were almost face-to-face, except Adam was pushing the vigilante’s chin back to keep his head on the ground. He was audibly seething; ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’

‘This isn’t your job.’ Adam hissed. His hood was off, he could feel his hair lifting in the breeze. ‘It’s not your responsibility.’

‘Who else is there?’

‘Enough!’ It was louder than intended, and his own anger shocked him.

The vigilante stopped resisting. Adam tilted off him, retreated a couple of feet and pulled his hood back up awkwardly with one hand.

A swift analysis suggested he hadn’t sustained any serious damage. He tasted blood, but he’d probably sliced the inside of his mouth inadvertently during the struggle.

‘Is your arm dislocated?’ The Widower asked, without moving.

Adam raised it and shook it experimentally. ‘Don’t think so.’

‘Broken?’

That was harder to tell. It hurt like something else, particularly where the vigilante had grabbed it, but it could have been sprained or bruised or both.

‘Don’t think so.’

The Widower sat up, slowly, and pulled at the leg of his suit. ‘D’you know what the fuck that was?’

‘No.’ Adam admitted. ‘No idea.’

‘It blew up a cop car.’ The vigilante added, remorsefully. ‘Right in front of me.’

‘I saw.’ A pause. ‘There was nothing you could have done.’

Another pause. The Widower leaned forward, laid his forehead against his knees. Adam had drawn almost back to his original position, and a few feet away he could see the glint of silver on the surface of the roof. He made no move to pick it up.

‘You don’t think I could beat a Terminator?’

‘It’s bigger than a Terminator. And Terminators don’t fly.’

‘Maybe not the 800-series.’ The Widower responded snidely.

Adam attempted to look disparaging. ‘What are you, twelve? Anyway, where’s your friend?’

The other, older, more experienced Widower. Come to think of it, what were his feelings on his protegè previously returning with multiple holes? Perhaps, because he presumably shared the healing abilities, he was willing to let the young Widower pursue threats of any conceivable severity? The very least he could do was show up to assist with fighting a robot.

The young vigilante was silent, head still lowered.

 _Jesus_. Adam regretted asking. He hoped the other one wasn’t mortally wounded, or dead.

Finally, and unexpectedly, the Widower laughed. ‘You’re soft.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You’re trying to protect me.’ He snickered gently. ‘You old softie.’

Adam stood up, tentative but indignant. ‘Because you’re an idiot.’ A remarkable idiot.

That wasn’t fair, anyway. The Widower had started it, and it wasn’t as though Adam was dropping coats on puddles for him. He would have died, without intervention. Adam’s hand had been forced.

The Widower stood, too, equally gingerly, and rolled his shoulders back. He’d taken the worst of the landing, but Adam wasn’t game to ask him how bad it might be.

‘Go home.’ He said instead, as the Widower started to amble towards the edge of the roof. ‘Take a vacation.’

The vigilante flapped a hand dismissively. ‘Look after my tiara, will you?’

He stepped off the roof and disappeared.

 

 

 

School was surprisingly quiet the next day. Adam expected to hear theories in abundance about the previous night, about the strange figure, about the motivations behind the explosion, but there was nothing.

The audience on the street had apparently dismissed the Widower’s scuffle as a shared, largely drunken delusion. The news reported the explosions as suspicious, likely gang-related, but without ruling out terrorism. 

Adam had taken the jewellery straight to Blue, given her everything. He’d asked Eve, when she’d come home in the morning, if she knew anything about robots, and she’d merely stared at him with quizzical suspicion.

His hands itched. The rash was unpleasantly warm, and obnoxiously red. He tried to keep them under the desk whenever he wasn’t taking notes, even tried pressing them against the metal legs to cool them down.

He hadn’t come up with a solution to the problem, yet. Any barrier between the gloves and his hands reduced his precision. Any other material would be thicker and more clumsy.

He could ask the Widower what his suit was made from. It didn’t seem to bother him.

He could stop wearing gloves altogether… After all, he’d started without the gloves, without the mask. He could go back to very small, very quiet theft.

Ronan was in one of Adam’s morning classes - Thursday, his parents were supposed to be back - and he nodded to Adam in passing.

Their assignment was due in a week. School would be finished after that. No more excuses for thinking about Lynch.

It helped, a little, distracting from the rash, the bruises on his arm, and the lingering feeling of torn muscle that made writing especially painful.

Running cold water on his hands helped numb the itch, briefly, but he’d resorted to licking them by the time he escaped Specialist for lunch.

‘Adam!’

He dropped his hand sharply, startled by Gansey’s unexpected proximity.

‘Tell him.’ Gansey demanded, falling into step with Adam.

Ronan was behind him, by a few feet, but he still managed to fix Adam with a look of blatant curiousity, raising an eyebrow.

‘I’m sorry?’ Adam tried to subtly press the back of his hand to his trouser leg.

‘It isn’t normal for food poisoning to last five days.’ Gansey continued. ‘There’s something wrong with him.’

Ronan was unfazed by this accusation. ‘I’m fine _now_.’

‘You should go to a doctor.’ Gansey argued. He said over his shoulder; ‘You look terrible.’

‘Thanks man.’

‘It could be your appendix.’ Gansey added. ‘Or gallstones.’

‘It’s not-’ Ronan, following them, sounded mildly embarrassed. ‘Goddamn, Gansey.’

‘Right.’ Gansey agreed swiftly. ‘Probably not.’

‘Please stop.’ Ronan muttered. ‘I’m fine, anyway.’

Gansey shook his head, but didn’t pursue the argument. ‘You met Declan, then?’

‘Briefly.’ Adam admitted. They hadn’t spoken much, either for introduction or afterwards, and he was baffled by Ronan’s suggestion that Declan considered him clever. It seemed impossible that Declan would even remember him from school, but Adam didn’t understand why Ronan would lie.

‘He’s such a dick.’ Ronan commented cheerfully.

‘And he said Ronan was okay.’ Gansey noted, and it took Adam a moment to recognise that he was asking for confirmation.

‘Yeah.’ Adam nodded. ‘Fine.’

Gansey looked over his shoulder again, and frowned. Adam could picture Lynch’s triumphant smirk.

‘All I’m saying.’ Gansey protested, and Ronan made a noise of irritation. ‘You look worse than on Tuesday.’

‘School makes me sick.’ Ronan said. ‘Clearly.’

Adam left them temporarily, to get food, and came back to find them bickering over the possibility Ronan had faked illness. Gansey didn’t seem to buy it, despite Ronan’s efforts.

‘Five days.’ Ronan let Adam draw even with them, without pausing. ‘Parents weren’t there. Got a new dog. Last weeks of school. Good weather.’

‘Nevertheless, Lynch.’ Gansey interjected. ‘All of that counts for nothing when you don’t have me around and you know it.’

Ronan rolled his eyes. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘See a doctor!’ Gansey insisted. ‘For God’s sake, Ronan.’

‘It was _nothing_.’ Ronan replied, and this time Adam sensed his insincerity. He wasn’t sure if Lynch was lying, or just withholding something, but either way Adam was suddenly, distinctly aware of the source of Gansey’s doubt.

He already knew it wasn’t true. He’d seen Ronan sick, and it hadn’t looked like nothing. But what he decided to tell Gansey was his business.

They took up their usual position for lunch, outside the tech labs. Gansey dropped the subject, but even Adam knew he hadn’t let it go.

Adam would be back, in the afternoon. He’d brought the object from the night before, with the intention of using the workshop to prise it open.

It was just a cylinder, probably steel. There was a narrow metal pin projecting from one end, and small, imperceptible hole in the other, and he was certain there was something inside, but it was clean sealed around the edges. He had a cautious suspicion it was something chemical, but he hadn’t formulated a hypothesis about why it had been attached to a cyborg. It must have been on the neck, somewhere, or Adam wouldn’t have been able to detach it.

‘Should go for at least half.’ Gansey said, serenely. Adam blinked, tuning into the conversation and wondering what he’d missed. Both of his companions seemed considerably more calm, now.

‘Half.’ Ronan said dubiously. ‘Really, half?’

‘They’re my family.’ Gansey answered, without conviction.

‘Hm.’

‘You’re going home over the holidays?’ Adam asked.

‘I’m going- Yes. For a bit, at least.’

Gansey lived in the city, Adam had learned, but his family were out of state. He lived by himself, that was the impressive thing. He had the money and the freedom to simply buy his own apartment while he was still in high school. Adam could only dream of it, despite his conversation with the Widower.

‘It’s not very exciting.’ Gansey admitted. ‘And Lynch is never willing to leave the farm to visit.’

‘You’re the one leaving.’ Ronan muttered petulantly.

‘True.’ Gansey looked politely chastised. He offered; ‘At least _you’ll_ have Adam to keep you company.’

Adam couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not. He wondered if he was the only one intrigued by the implication that he and Lynch were… company.

‘Not like Parrish has a life.’ Ronan commented airily. Gansey frowned at him.

Adam shook his head. ‘Nope.’ He leaned on Ronan’s leg pointedly. ‘Just co-parenting responsibilities.’

Ronan snorted, exactly as Gansey blankly repeated; ‘Co-parenting?’

‘Those mice despise you.’ Ronan cut in swiftly. ‘Consider your responsibilities revoked.’

‘How dare you.’

‘It’s what’s best for them.’ Ronan answered, firmly addressing the ground instead of Adam.’Think of the children.’

Adam paused for reflection, and yielded. ‘I mean… they _do_ hate me.’

He caught Ronan’s eye, registering a moment of thoughtfulness before Ronan glanced away.


	18. Rise of the bitchy machines

Workshop was cramped and busy, and it was easy for Adam to find a corner to pry open his silver treasure.

He suspected it was a needle. The pin was narrow, possibly broken at the top. He didn’t want to shatter whatever receptacle was inside, release whatever chemical was being contained, but he was desperately curious to know what it was.

If he was efficient he could try and identify it in the laboratory before school shut for the evening.

Two classmates sharing the bench near him were arguing loudly, obnoxiously, over the relative importance of each of their tech components. They didn’t notice Adam wedging the cylinder into a vice and attacking it with pliers.

Across the room, there were spatters of similar, dissimilar arguments, bursts of laughter, challenges and demonstrations. Less than two weeks before the end of term and students were scrambling to complete projects, maximise their time with their machines, and brag about what they’d already accomplished.

The pliers didn’t work. The cylinder ends weren’t even welded… and Adam was beginning to question how the contents of an internal container, if there was one, could be inserted or removed.

He located an angle grinder, currently not in use, and sidled over to pinch it.

Nobody was paying any attention, even as he carefully, very, very carefully, opened up the top of the cylinder, cautiously laid the metal circle on the bench, and peered inside.

He wasn’t, for a second, capable of comprehending what he was looking at. The tricky part was that it was largely enclosed. The components were folded in somehow, around a tube of plastic.

Helpfully, it was a self-contained unit, so with a bit of help from the pliers Adam could gently pull the entire contents out, and lay the metal case aside.

He guessed the plastic tube might have been a camera, from the small lens or sensor on the front. There was a plastic box on the left, curved to fit the case, that was delicately wired across to the tube and two modules on the right, thin enough to bend and dangerously fragile.

He could hazard a rough guess that the purpose of the latter was transmission and reception, but he wasn’t sure they were complex enough for a camera feed. He’d need to take the plastic off to be certain.

Or…

‘Matt.’

The youngest Lynch was with a group of others, far more focused on a shouting match than the drone settled on the bench in front of him.

It sounded as though they were discussing car engines, no, planes. Future engineers, to the last one.

Matthew hadn’t heard him, but when someone indicated Adam’s presence he abandoned the conversation with charitable enthusiasm.

‘Adam, how’s it going?’

‘Good, thanks.’ Adam wasn’t sure he’d ever received so much attention simultaneously, as the rest of the argument died down to accomodate his presence. ‘I have a question for you.’

Matthew cheerfully obliged, accepting the remnants of Adam’s cylinder into both hands.

‘Neat.’ He squinted at them with inexplicable interest. ‘That’s nice work for a transmitter.’

‘I didn’t make it.’ Adam told him hastily. ‘Thought it might be useful for a project.’

‘It would be.’ Matthew briskly handed it back and turned away. For a second Adam had the impulse to withdraw, feeling summarily dismissed, but as soon as Matthew had removed a piece of his drone he turned back. He was unpacking something in his hands, pieces resting evenly across steady palms.

‘Like this.’ He advised. ‘There’s your transmitter. That’s probably a GPS, there. This’d be your battery.’ He hesitated, and phrased his explanation more forgivingly than truly necessary. ‘It looks strange because… it’s secondary, I s’pose. A backup.’

Adam could see what he meant. He hadn’t picked the GPS, or recognised the unmarked battery, but to Matthew, understandably, it looked exactly like something dislodged from an amateur drone. Far more amateur than the intricate piece of technology on the bench in front of him.

Adam thanked him, too busy feeling foolish to think until he was halfway across the room, at which point he made a quick u-turn and returned to Matthew’s side.

Matthew, kindly, greeted him with exactly the same enthusiasm.

‘Given that it’s probably secondary, do you think it would function?’

Matt’s hands were empty again. He plucked part of the structure from Adam’s palm. ‘I guess… it just depends. If the receiver is in range.’ He paused, shrugged. ‘And if the battery is charged.’

Adam forced himself to smile, calm and appreciative, before he turned away.

He’d brought a fucking tracker to school.

 

 

 

He pulled the fire alarm in the corridor. Immediately. Didn’t even stop to pick up his bag.

There was no visible evidence that the transmitter was functional, but it was never meant to be pulled open and seen.

He slipped out of sight as students began to file out of the workshop, grumbling, and returned to the room when they’d been shuffled out towards the quadrangle.

His gear was balled up at the bottom of his backpack, wrapped inside a jacket. He didn’t always carry it, out of caution, but occasionally it was easier to go straight to a job than to head downtown and come back.

He was lucky he had them today. Lucky school was already over, and that workshop was informal, and that nobody, with the possible exception of Matthew Lynch, would even remember that he’d been there. He was lucky that the robot hadn’t already found him.

Why had it been carrying a secondary set of components? Was it actually a robot, or a cyborg, and in either case what were its primary components actually in aid of? Why attack a law firm, with all the destructive power it had? Was it… sentient?

He changed in the bathroom, gently replaced the contents of the cylinder, and cautiously edged into the empty corridor.

He’d have to dispose of it. As far as possible from anything associated with himself, despite not knowing how much information might have already been gleaned about his movements - his apartment, Blue’s, the trip to school.

If it was capable of transmitting video or audio, it was capable of compromising nearly everyone he knew. The only source of comfort was that it had been in his backpack, rather than in the open. It was small, too. The transmission radius could have been limited. It might have only a real-time feed, no storage. Might not be under observation at all. The battery could be dead.

The school was almost pleasant, when it was this empty. The majority of students and faculty were long gone, and just the dedicated tech students had been cleared by the alarm, so Adam could move rapidly and unseen through the building. He stuffed the bag into his locker, wincing at the loss of his textbooks overnight, and moved on.

The benefit of Aglionby was that the student population were typically too wealthy to be suspected or accused of criminal behaviour. There were no video cameras inside, the classrooms remained unlocked. The front doors would still be open, even if there wasn’t an unobserved path to the gate.

He’ sneak down by the rowing sheds, if he went out through the gym. He’d have to follow the river to a bridge without being seen, but the sky was cloudy, threatening to become stormy at the slightest provocation, and he could manage it if people were scarce and he was careful.

He pivoted on his heel to turn down another corridor, and heard the thud of approaching footsteps over the sound of the alarm.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he backtracked. He was paranoid, maybe, but he’d already been careless enough to get himself into this mess. If he was being hunted, the pursuit would have been slowed by the difficulty of tracking one individual in a building of hundreds. Easier to wait until he was separated from others, clearly identifiable as the thief.

He retraced his steps, moving at slightly more than a jog and slightly less than a sprint.

The sound was following him. He wondered if it could just be someone checking the alarm, rather than a terrifying entity intent on murdering him.

He’d loop around, through the cafeteria, try and lose whoever was nearby.

He was halfway down the T-block hall when something appeared ahead of him. Adam hit the wall instantly, pressing himself between a set of lockers and a door to the computer lab.

It wasn’t the same thing that was behind him. The tread was considerably lighter, and faster, and Adam had a peculiarly unpleasant sensation of recognition.

 _Lynch_. He’d barely seen him, but he knew instinctively who it was.

Only Lynch would be this difficult.

Why the hell was he even here? He should have left by now, with Gansey or-

 _Shit_. He was after Matthew, presumably, which meant he wouldn’t stop until he found him.

He was getting closer, rapidly. Adam could still just hear (or imagined he could hear) the footsteps from the other direction.

_Ronan, Ronan._

He could be wrong. Running from nothing.

He could be right.

If he could find something on the robot, information, some little snippet of knowledge, he might be able to use it to curb the Widower’s recklessness. But if he kept the device, and the monster was here, neither he or Lynch were likely to survive the encounter.

Adam crushed his eyes shut and lifted his face to the ceiling, silently raising a curse.

He lunged across the hall, flinging the cylinder with one swift underarmed toss as he moved. His forearms took most of the impact, and his palms, claws curled in, but he felt Ronan’s shoulder slam into his chest, and a moment of startled breathlessness.

Then Ronan hit the ground, grunting, and immediately started to fight.

Adam caught him up, hands curved around his arms, and forced him back into the shadow of the lockers against the opposite wall. Ronan was pushing him, one arm folded between them and shoving Adam away. He was strong, surprisingly strong, but not enough. Adam scrabbled for the handle of the door behind him, and they both tripped through when he got it open.

‘Get-’ Ronan’s free hand scraped Adam’s jaw, pushing his chin back. ‘- _off_.’

Adam dragged Ronan behind the desk at the front of the room, and threw him down, counting on surprise to dislodge him.

‘Stop.’ He dropped a knee against Ronan’s hip, an arm against his throat.

He could still hear footsteps, over Ronan’s growling, and crouched lower, out of sight.

‘Enough.’ He pressed a hand over Ronan’s mouth, trying not to stab him, trying equally hard to shut him up. ‘ _Stop_.’

He twisted, momentarily, and then stopped, eyes fixing on Adam’s, grimly suspicious.

Ronan had a grip on his arm, tight enough to hurt already aching muscles, but he didn’t move. Adam wondered what he could think of a black clad creature with yellow eyes. Of the cat mask, and the claws. He wondered if Ronan could recognise his voice.

The steps paused. Ronan’s gaze slid across Adam’s mask, anger losing ground to wounded fear.

The cat wasn’t a vigilante. The cat wasn’t even a famous thief. For Lynch, this situation wouldn’t make any sense at all, except that a mask was rarely a sign of goodwill.

Adam widened his eyes, questioningly, and slowly lifted his hand.

‘The fuck was that?’ Lynch was hissing, low enough to allow, but punctuated with an infuriated thrash.

Adam scratched the floor next to his head in warning, but Lynch continued to glare defiantly.

‘It’s after something.’

Ronan jerked his shoulder, a pointless attempt to shake Adam’s balance. ‘ _It?_ After _what_?’

Adam moved so that his elbow dug into the soft part of the same shoulder, and showed his teeth.

Distinctive thuds reached them from the corridor. The transmitter had been found, but it mustn’t have stopped the creature looking for whoever had taken it.

‘A device.’ Adam dropped lower, spoke more softly.

‘Why here?’ It was sharp, testing. Lynch didn’t trust the cat. He would have been insane if he did.

‘Don’t know.’ Adam lied. ‘Followed it here.’

Ronan’s gaze was wavering, wary but anxious.

‘Why?’ Another hiss, but this time he didn’t have the space to struggle. He looked past Adam’s face, blinking quickly and avoiding the cat’s stare.

‘To get it first.’

It was barely a whisper, more like a breath, Adam’s mouth close to Ronan’s jaw.

‘So go-‘

Adam instinctively dropped weight on his arm, forcing Ronan’s voice to cut out with his air supply, before he lifted it again.

The door clunked against a wall, and he stilled. Ronan’s eyes flickered sideways, over his shoulder, up to the edge of the desk, but he didn’t move, despite reddening from the loss of oxygen.

The footsteps, slow and heavy, drew closer. Adam lifted his hand from beside Ronan’s head, curved his claws, and waited.

He’d fight, if necessary. He’d need to get it away from Ronan, first, but he’d also have to make sure it didn’t come back.

The footsteps paused, navigated away along the length of the classroom, and returned. Adam examined the dark edges of Ronan’s irises.

For a second, there was silence. An inopportune moment to wonder if anyone else had ever gotten this close to Ronan Lynch.

The desk creaked, and disappeared.

Adam rolled after it, shoving Ronan in the other direction, as a piece of metal the size of a slab of concrete slammed down between them. Lynch had let himself be pushed, and covered his head with both arms as he retreated to the front wall. The robot swivelled towards him - he was closer, and trapped - and Adam, with a frustrated sense of déjà vu, lunged at its back.

He expected the swing, thanks to the Widower’s experience, and ducked beneath a metal plated arm.

There was no long coat, no jacket. A loose semblance to trousers, no shoes. There was skin (at least, something like skin) on its face, neck, and chest. It was a man, or built to vaguely resemble one. One eye even looked human, dark brown, narrowed. Eyelashes, eyebrow. Metal seemed to sit just over the skin at the join, more like a plate than half of the head itself. Seven feet, or taller. Shoulders like a cattle pusher, either fully metal or plated in metal. Abdomen was segmented, like a ribcage, resembling a stack of metal plates.

Adam backed up, conscious that he was badly outmatched in size and strength, but drawing the figure’s attention away from Ronan. The alarm had been a mistake. It must have drawn the enemy in, hopeful of pinpointing the object while the rest of the school was occupied outside. Evasion was the only tactic Adam could use, but it suited his skill set. He dodged a desk chair casually flung across the room, tried to circle towards the windows and was swiftly blocked by a flying desk.

Ronan was upright, holding onto the whiteboard for support, unmoving, eyes fixed on the scuffle.

Adam avoided another swing, but he couldn’t move far enough to escape the second arm, articulated metal fingers catching in his jacket and hauling him off his feet like a rag doll. He hit the wall, winded, no opportunity to move before a hand was crushing his breastbone and pinning him with enough force to lift his feet off the ground.

He saw Ronan flinch forwards, and swung an arm helplessly to deter him. The robot pressed closer, joints bending, and Adam wedged a foot against his neck, but there was no capacity to push him back. He had the unsettling realisation that the robot had no mouth, even as his leg folded, his own knee being pressed into his chest.

There was a rush of air as the robot threw him across the room.

He hit the window, felt the glass give way, and landed on his back.

He could see the sky, even through watering eyes. It was entirely grey, dark enough in patches to hint at rain, spinning and blurring.

_Run._

_Hide._

He could barely move. He heard the remnants of the window collapse outwards and the sound of more glass shattering over the persistent shrill of the alarm.

He’d landed in the courtyard between the workshop, T- block and the library, on glass, on concrete. If he turned his head he could see a hazy impression of where they’d had lunch earlier.

He pushed one elbow down, fighting through the discomfort of being unable to breathe, and felt it slip on glass and pavement. He could just turn onto his hands and knees, ignoring every warning shooting through his body that it was a bad idea, and force himself upright.

The robot was battering a bigger hole in the wall around the window. Lynch could still have been in the room, but Adam couldn’t see him.

He staggered towards the gap between the buildings, tried to slow his heartbeat, make himself think. A secondary transmitter wouldn’t contain any stored information. Adam would have tried to identify the craftsmanship, or at the very least, gathered intel on the robot down through Wyvern with the cylinder as evidence. He doubted the robot considered it, and the recovery of it, particularly important.

It had come to eliminate witnesses, perhaps, but it seemed a foolish risk given that it was attacking in a school during daylight.

It had come to eliminate the thief, probably, because Adam had pissed it off.

He reached the outside of the cafeteria, finally getting oxygen to his lungs, and unsteadily climbed one of the wooden tables.

It took a spring, to catch the building gutters, and it hurt like a bitch pulling himself up. His jacket was damp, even down the sleeve of his good arm. He slid across the steel roof, wincing, until he wasn’t visible from the ground.

He couldn’t fight it. It wasn’t likely he could outrun it. He was desperately hoping Ronan had bolted, escaped unharmed.

Finally, the alarm cut out. Adam lay flat to the metal and motionless, ears ringing.

He heard the footsteps, slow but not cautious, on the pavement below him. Fear made his fingers tingle, but relief flooded his stomach. It had left Ronan behind.

He wondered if it could hear his heart thudding in his ribcage, or his breath ghosting across the metal, or the blood rolling down his back.

The footsteps passed, pacing the length of the cafeteria before receding into the distance. Adam exhaled, feeling himself tremble.

He stayed hidden, for a long time. Long enough for the carpark to empty, and the gates to close, and the rain to start. Patience was one of the few virtues he could lay claim to, and he would have slept if the threat of death hadn’t lingered.

He stayed because the dread of being caught was insidious, because parts of him were hurting in unfamiliar, undesirable ways, and because he knew that being found was either a life sentence or a death sentence.

He didn’t hear police sirens, or an ambulance. Ronan must have gotten out, but kept his mouth shut. What would he have said? He’d seen a cat fighting a robot during an unscheduled fire drill when he shouldn’t even have been in the damn building?

It only worsened Adam’s anxiety.

Recognition or not, he’d seen the cat. At close quarters, in a compromising state, in a compromising location.

Had he been too stunned to tell anyone? Had he been too focused on getting to Matthew, and getting out?

The blood was dry, even if Adam’s jacket was getting soaked. He felt it cracking as he pushed up on his hands. His muscles had stiffened, and climbing down took a considerable chunk of resolve.

He’d escaped lightly, he knew that, but it didn’t feel like it. Everything hurt. Hitting the ground made him groan, but he began a slow, cautious limp to the broken window.

It was a giant black hole, untaped, unacknowledged. The first arrival tomorrow would assume some thug had tried to put a sledgehammer through it.

Or a bus.

He couldn’t see blood on the glass. Thankfully the bleeding had started slow, and was largely limited to the small shards still lodged in his skin. Most of the blood, he guessed, came from being tenderised against the wall before skidding across the pavement.

The room was dark. He knew Lynch couldn’t still be there, but he checked anyway, picking around the overturned tables and debris.

It had been a matter of minutes, possibly. The robot could have pulverised him against the wall for efficiency, but it had thrown him through the window instead. It might have had another objective, but Adam suspected it was autonomous (and vindictive) enough to drag out the fight.

It could have killed Ronan, for seeing it, but that didn’t seem to matter either.

 _Christ_ , he hoped Lynch was alright.

He eased himself back outside, and fumbled for his phone.

He could text. They were on good enough terms for that.

It was absurdly suspicious, though.

There was already a green bubble on his lock screen. It took him a moment to focus and read it, shifting his weight, and another attempt to actually understand what it said.

**Lynch: Where r u?**

Adam checked the sender, cycled out of the screen, checked again. It must have been a text from Eve, because it didn’t make sense otherwise. Nothing else would make sense.

He swallowed, hard. Selected the message.

It had arrived more than two hours ago. Before the scuffle.

After the alarm.

He leaned on the wall, panic flooding his body with unexpected, jittery heat.

_Shit. Oh, shit._


	19. The Notebook (but treble angst and pretty gay)

It took an age to get home.

He walked most of the way, mask and gloves buried in his pockets. Hood up in the rain, like a hundred other people on the streets. He didn’t want to think about climbing, or leaping between rooftops. He didn’t want to think about explaining this to Eve, or god forbid, admitting it to the Widower.

He wouldn’t have to.

He’d find a way not to.

And Lynch… He didn’t want to think about it.

He’d have to, before tomorrow. He needed to _now_.

Ronan would have been waiting for Matthew to finish, to drive them both home. He’d have gone to find his brother in the crowd as soon as the alarm went off, that much was guaranteed.

He’d noticed Adam’s absence. He’d _noticed_ , but that didn’t mean…

It didn’t mean he’d been looking for Adam. It didn’t mean he’d made the connection when he found the cat instead.

But Ronan wasn’t an idiot. He wasn’t _blind_.

Adam was a block from his building when someone stepped in front of him on the sidewalk.

It startled him out of thought, startled him more when he recognised the figure. A neighbour.

‘Anna.’ The response was reflexive, but also… embarrassed. Wyverns usually saw him, knew him, and didn’t speak to him.

‘Baby boy.’ The sound of his voice didn’t deter her, and she looped an arm around his neck cheerfully. He could feel himself blushing, but let her guide him away from the road.

He wasn’t sure how much older than him Anna was. She was younger than Eve, he knew, had only lived with them three or four years. She’d been less suspicious than most newcomers, though, and in the early years had let Adam watch cartoons in her apartment and eat the small sugary disasters she enjoyed trying to bake.

Her hair was red, almost the colour of rust. He doubted it was natural, but it was still nice. Despite the rain, her clothes were dry and her lipstick was perfect.

She’d backed him into the arch of a doorway, close enough to see whatever bruises or blood his hood had been casting into shadow. Adam watched her eyes narrow.

‘I was hoping they were wrong, baby boy.’ Her smile didn’t disappear, but Adam couldn’t stop himself from frowning.

‘What is it?’

‘You’re normally so careful.’ She petted the top of his hood, dislodging the rain. ‘You never get into fights.’

‘I got…’ Adam blinked as water dripped on his face. ‘… stuck.’

‘You can’t go home.’

‘I’m sorry?’

She leaned closer, leaning her elbows on his shoulders, bracketing him from view. ‘They’re out watching, kiddo.’

His stomach dropped. ‘Who?’

 _The police._ Ronan had -

‘No one knows.’ She lifted a shoulder, momentarily lapsing into a scowl. ‘Pricks.’

‘Did they get into-’

‘No.’ She flicked her chin up. ‘They’re not stupid enough to try it. They’re stupid enough to think you were a… visitor.’

‘Me?’ He fought down the blush again, trying to concentrate through the cold and the fatigue catching up with him. He’d taken the tracker back. Just for a night.

 _They_? Who were _they_?

The Wyverns didn’t allow visitors in the apartment building.

They didn’t allow men at all, which made Adam’s presence a closely guarded secret. For that reason alone, _they_ didn’t know who they were looking for.

‘I can’t go.’ He repeated.

Anna’s expression softened. ‘We’ll fix this. There’s no messing with you without messing with us.’

He forced a weak smile.

Anna was one of his favourites, and Eve had a fair amount of authority, but that didn’t change the facts. They protected their own, and Adam didn’t belong.

She kissed his forehead, and released him back onto the sidewalk.

 

 

 

It hadn’t stopped raining. If anything, the storm was deepening.

He found himself at the train station, under the roof but still shivering from the cold. It had largely numbed the pain, but he felt leaden and weak. Shock, maybe.

He’d messaged Blue, but her reply had been cryptic and discouraging, probably concerned that someone was listening in.

There wasn’t anywhere else.

It shouldn’t matter. Adam knew how to survive on the streets, where to hide, where to hunt. He wouldn’t be able to get to school, though, no clothes and no showers, and he didn’t know how far the cyborg, and whoever was working with it, would go to find him.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. How quickly that thing could kill him, could have killed Lynch. That Ronan could know. That at some point he’d decide to tell someone what he’d seen, even what he hadn’t seen.

He couldn’t stop wondering what Ronan was thinking. He hadn’t responded to the text. Wasn’t sure how. The phone was already at half battery and he didn’t know what to do next.

The train was slightly late. 12.05. Adam could feel his leg trembling even as it rattled up. The midnight train was the dodgiest one, scratched windows and drafty doors, not many passengers. Mostly they were coming into the city, very few were headed out.

He didn’t need to go. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for.

Nothing. But it was probably safer out of town anyway.

He didn’t sleep this time, despite the exhaustion. It was too cold, too uncomfortable, and he was nervous. Irrationally nervous. Maybe rationally, he couldn’t tell.

His mind wasn’t clear, he knew that. He felt walled in and foggy.

The train rattled to a stop. It was completely dark outside, windows dotted with water. There wasn’t even a light on the station.

This had been a mistake.

Walking off the train was like wading through toffee. Even breathing took an effort, but he could feel his limbs gradually loosening as he moved.

He knew the way, though the rain was more difficult to navigate than just darkness. By the time he reached the gate it would be well into the early hours of the morning, at the pace he was able to travel without significant discomfort.

The sketchy plan was to snoop. Quietly. Maybe see if Lynch was asleep, if his phone was around, accessible. Whatever happened, he would surely have discussed it with Gansey? Maybe Adam could just hide in one of the Lynches’ barns for a few days and try and sleep this all off.

He’d wind up smelling like a farm animal, but that really paled in comparison to a violent demise.

He slipped on the driveway, even with sharpened vision, and landed awkwardly and messily in gravel and mud. Fantastic start.

The building was dark. Adam resisted the urge to put on his gear. He hadn’t identified, when he stayed, any security measures besides the door to the laboratory. There was Lúthien, but… she wouldn’t hear him. She might smell him, possibly, but she already knew his scent.

It was impossible to hear anything over the rain driving into the dirt, and the roof of the house, and Adam’s shoulders. He stood under the cover of nearby trees and stared blankly at the house.

_What was he doing?_

Like the others, Ronan’s window sat over the porch roof. The window next to his, from memory, was Matthew’s, while the spare room faced the back lawn. There was the bathroom, and an office or something similar, and their parents’ had the larger room at the other end of the house.

It felt as though the house was more of a dream than a reality. Adam stood and stared and waited, wondering if he had the courage or the lack of sense to attempt it. He’d never even considered bringing the cat into the situation with Lynch, but right now he couldn’t stop. Ronan might already know. His silence might be… intentional.

Or he could be unaware, asleep, unaffected. Everything could be fine.

Adam needed to know.

He rested his hands on the white-painted wooden railing, tensing for the pain, and lifted his weight until he got a foot under himself and could stand. There were gutters here, too, but Adam was careful to use the steel to pull himself upwards, making sure he didn’t break anything. The angle was slight, so the water lingered, seeping through his already soaked trousers.

Ronan’s window, closed against the rain, was dark like the rest. His curtains weren’t pulled, and Adam steadied himself against the wall before he risked sneaking a look.

 _Dark, dark_. He sharpened his gaze, and almost flinched away from the glass.

There was a figure sitting on the bed. The edge of the mattress, facing the wall, motionless.

Fear hit him first. _Who was inside, who was near Lynch, who the hell-_

Then the slow, dragging common sense. Niall, perhaps. Maybe Matthew. Someone else in the family who’d come in to speak to Ronan, or check on him.

Finally, processing the other details. No lump on the bed, nobody else in the room. Just Ronan, sitting up in the dark.

Adam let his forehead drop against the wall softly, just out of view.

No chance of checking his messages to Gansey, then, but had he really expected to go through with it? Breaking into Ronan’s room, just to… see him.

He wasn’t in control of himself.

He lifted a hand. Tried to stop. Tried not to want in so much.

Just a fingernail, a single tap. With his eyes pressed closed he could almost pretend it wasn’t a conscious decision at all.

Light crept across his eyelids. After a moment, the window scraped open.

‘Adam.’

He jumped slightly at the voice. What was he _doing_?

A hand found the edge of his hood, pulled it aside. He nearly jerked his head away, embarrassed and confused.

‘C’mon.’ Ronan prompted quietly, drawing him towards the window.

The bedside lamp was on. Adam felt his shoes hit the carpet, instantly aware of the water dripping off him, the difference in temperature, and the gravity of what he was doing.

Ronan closed the window, pulled the blinds shut. Adam heard him move across the room, pull the wardrobe open, but he couldn’t bring himself to do more than stare sightlessly at the floor.

‘Clothes.’ Ronan murmured, placing them on the end of the bed. The covers were still pulled up, tucked over the pillows. He hadn’t been to bed yet. He mustn’t have slept.

Adam unzipped his jacket automatically, lowered the hood. He was in his own mess now, there was no use resisting it.

Dropping the wet fabric on the floor felt disrespectful, but there wasn’t any obvious alternative, and Ronan was busy pulling the mattress out from under the bed. He was still dressed, but out of uniform. He was wearing boots, which Adam found particularly, distractingly unusual.

Trying to get his shirt off sparked fresh needles of pain. Ronan glanced up when he grunted, and looked away again. It was impossible to tell if there were bloodstains on the black fabric, so Adam didn’t bother thinking about it. The glass… the glass should be pulled out, but he was too tired, and Ronan was too calm, spreading blankets over the spare mattress.

Ronan stood up, ignoring Adam’s clumsy removal of his shoes and socks, and left the room, shutting the door.

He returned a few seconds later, while Adam was still trying to peel his cargoes off his legs, and offered a towel from a safe distance.

He was clearly reluctant to look, but when Adam reached for the towel he mumbled something exceptionally crude under his breath.

‘You…’ He trailed off, searched for words. ‘… need…’

Adam shook his head, unstable but imploring. He needed sleep. He needed to find the energy to ask Ronan to lie for him.

Ronan just stepped away from him, circled the bed, and settled into his previous position, facing the other wall.


	20. Spiderman, Catman and Wingman

Panic, and nausea.

That was the extent of Ronan’s feelings.

His head ached, a tangle of ideas and shitty emotions. He could barely close his eyes, let alone sleep.

Every hour he’d stood up in the darkness and gone to the window, determined to leave in search of Parrish. Every time the dread hit him it took his breath away.

He had to find, he had to _see_ Adam. He had to know…

But he already knew.

He had to make sure Adam was okay. He’d been… injured.

 _He’d_ been injured.

Panic.

Adam was the thief. _Adam was the thief._

Nausea.

The cyborg had hurt him.

Ronan had… watched.

_Adam was the thief._

He’d been looking for Adam. Matthew said he’d just been inside, before the alarm, but he never showed up with the evacuation, and Ronan had… only wanted an excuse, really, to see him again.

And the cat had jumped him in the corridor. _Jesus fuck_ , Ronan had nearly lost it. He thought the damn thing had tracked him down, identified him just to screw with his head. That alone had scared the shit out of him.

The mask wasn’t enough of a barrier, between the smartass Ronan was searching for and the one he’d found. He’d recognised Adam’s manner, his height, the smirk behind the mask, the hair mostly hidden and shadowed by his hood. He’d recognised the possibility that the cat could be Adam, then he’d understood the inevitability of it.

It was messed up, but it made sense. In fact, it made so much sense Ronan knew he was an idiot for not realising sooner, even as he wished he still didn’t know.

Adam’s childhood, the secrecy about where he lived, worked, who his friends were. His athleticism, his self-restraint, his solitude. He’d broken into the goddamn rowing shed, for fucks sake, in front of Ronan’s face. He’d stolen fucking _Skittles_. 

His voice had been so familiar, when he’d shouted on the rooftop. Ronan hadn’t understood why it bothered him so much at the time.

With a moment to think, it was obvious.

And immediately, he’d been afraid of how much Adam must already know about the Widower. How long he’d been watching Ronan tie himself in circles like an idiot trying to keep the two worlds separate.

Had he known before they’d been partnered?

Had he known before he came to the house?

God, he’d met Niall…

Christ, Niall had _hit_ Adam.

The fucking cyborg had come out of nowhere. Ronan had assumed the cat was lying, or covering up his presence in some way, but that massive prick had been inside the goddamn school.

He’d gotten to Adam, gotten him bad, and Ronan hadn’t known what to do, out of the suit, frozen and unprepared.

Ronan had been an idiot, blindsided, paralysed… but Adam was wounded and he didn’t _heal_ , if that had been an honest admission.

Ronan had run to Matthew, finally. It was the only necessity he could identify.

But everything else, everything afterward, was confusion.

Ronan hadn’t told Niall. About the cyborg. About Parrish. He didn’t know where to begin, or where to stop. He didn’t want… He couldn’t risk the Widower, but he was afraid of… losing Adam.

Niall had been lenient, about Ronan’s encounters with the thief, but if he suspected Adam would endanger their identities - and _Matthew_ \- Ronan didn’t know how he’d react.

Ronan’s bed dipped unexpectedly, and he glanced around.

Adam had only put one sleeve of the shirt on before giving up and sitting to pull socks onto his frozen pale feet.

The worst part was that the sight of him made Ronan willing to accept every shitty part of this shitty realisation.

He’d managed to put slacks on, at least, so Ronan cautiously approached him.

His back was a patchwork of bruises, a couple of cuts deep enough to still glisten with blood, and broad, vicious grazes across his shoulder blades and ribcage. Ronan lifted the other side of the shirt, venturing a closer look. His main concern was internal damage - bleeding, fractures, head trauma - and how fragile an entity Adam was, even if not entirely human.

Adam obligingly folded his arm, and let Ronan guide the sleeve up to his shoulder.

He hadn’t spoken, yet. It would have been a relief if Ronan didn’t find his unsteady, unfocused silence unnerving. The cat would hate to be so vulnerable. _Adam_ would hate it.

Ronan buttoned the shirt, cursed his hands for shaking, and dragged back the blankets on the spare mattress. Adam slid from the bed to the mattress, curving his back as minimally as he could, and crawled under the covers.

 _Maybe a concussion, maybe shock_. Ronan shouldn’t let him sleep.

Nearly ten hours since the fight, though. He needed rest. Ronan couldn’t think of anything else that would help.

He replaced the blankets, carefully, over Adam’s back.

Parrish went still instantly, face down, cheek pressed against the pillow, completely silent. Ronan watched the blankets move, for a few moments, reassuring himself that Adam was breathing, then forced himself to look away.

He picked up Adam’s dripping clothing, and cleared off his desk so he could lay them over it to dry. They were the cat’s things, black and covered with pockets. Only the jacket that Ronan hung over the desk chair was unusually heavy, and Ronan reluctantly withdrew the mask from one pocket, and the pair of gloves, sharp-tipped, from another.

It felt strange to hold them, in the half-light and practically alone. Like a kick of confused guilt and fear and uncertainty.

Could Adam be trusted?

Why had he come? How had he managed to reach the farm, in that state? Was it even safe for him to be in the house?

Ronan wouldn’t hurt him. He couldn’t. He’d probably let Parrish set him on fire rather than retaliate, but there was Niall, his brothers… It had been his responsibility to keep the Widower a secret, to protect them.

He hid the mask and gloves, folded into clothing at the bottom of his closet.

The cat had been an ally. Adam was his _friend_.

Ronan couldn’t face losing him.

 

 

 

He left before sunrise, to feed the animals, came back to shower and change into his uniform.

It had only been a few hours. Sleeping hadn’t been an option.

Adam hadn’t moved an inch. Ronan double checked that he was still breathing when he left, nervously aware that he’d never actually seen Adam sleep before, and checked again when he returned. Parrish was just a bundle of blankets and a bird’s nest of hair, undisturbed by daylight or noise.

Ronan didn’t know what he’d been planning, the night before. Attending school was out of the question, but Adam was probably fixated enough to consider it anyway. Leaving him alone seemed wildly inappropriate, both due to the information he held, his occupation and his injuries. Ronan didn’t know how to explain his presence to Aurora and Niall, or what excuse would permit another day off school, and he wasn’t even certain that Parrish wanted to stay, given that he’d hardly been thinking clearly when he’d arrived.

Ronan needed another look at his back, before anything else was decided.

He brought the medkit from the bathroom, willing himself to stop feeling dizzily uneasy about the prospect of Parrish shirtless and potentially bleeding out.

Still no movement. What was a non-threatening way to wake a badly hurt and inescapably dangerous house-guest?

Distance was probably recommended. Ronan prodded him gently with his toes, and whispered; ‘Parrish.’

It was incredible, how big a shitfight he’d created for himself. _Incredible_.

Adam stirred far less violently than predicted. It took him a moment, and obvious effort, to push himself into a sitting position.

Pale, tired, evidently displeased with the burden of consciousness. He looked considerably less vacant and lost than earlier, which was a bonus, and lifted one hand to rest on his ribcage with a frown.

‘I…’ The frown deepened, either from embarrassment or irritation. ‘… crashed.’

‘Yeah.’ Ronan swallowed nervous laughter. Adam glanced at the window, the sunlight barely permeating the blinds, and then back at Ronan’s clothing.

‘Are you going?’ His surprise was slight, potentially imagined.

‘I guess.’ Ronan shrugged. ‘I thought… I’m not…’

‘I’ll leave.’ Adam responded blankly. ‘I’m good to go.’

It was unfair, that he was practically as calm as normal. Ronan was inclined to be offended by it. He sat on the edge of his bed, heavily, and lifted the black case in lieu of an actual explanation. ‘Your back.’

Adam winced. ‘I think it’s okay.’

‘It’s not.’

He twitched again, almost comically reluctant. ‘Oh.’

Ronan lowered the case, and Adam pushed free of the cocoon of blankets. It took him a moment to work the shirt buttons loose, and Ronan felt his breath hitching. He had the sudden overwhelming sense that Parrish had known exactly what he was doing when he’d come to the house. He knew the Widower was willing to protect the cat (he owed the cat his life, for fuck’s sake), and he’d probably noticed how Ronan felt about him. Maybe he understood how much Ronan would sacrifice to protect him. Maybe he had an idea of how far that protection would go.

The realisation was horrific. Humiliating. Paralysing.

Ronan stared at the wall, fighting the instinct to bail and find a hole to bury himself in.

‘Ronan?’ Adam had succeeded in removing the shirt, even if he didn’t seem particularly pleased about it. ‘This isn’t necessary.’

He seemed to interpret Ronan’s silence as some form of rebuke, and gingerly shifted until he was facing the window.

There were small pieces of glass, not many, but most of the surrounding skin had already swollen with the lingering intrusion. The grazes were largely light, and advantageously clean thanks to the two layers of fabric between skin and ground. Ronan extracted the glass, with difficulty, and small pieces of thread and fluff, and liberally covered everything with antiseptic while Adam fidgeted and twitched.

He knew how Ronan felt about him. Nothing had ever been so frightening. Ronan could literally feel his chest hurting.

The bruises were even worse, dark in patches and yellow elsewhere. Ronan’s suspicion wasn’t lessened by the defensive hand Adam was still holding to his ribs. He probably needed a hospital, but like the Widower, he probably couldn’t risk going to one.

_Inhuman._

His eyes… his teeth were different, too… did he change? How was that possible? Was he created, like Ronan, from human genes? Whoever had raised him had to know what he was, but how had they hidden it for so long? How had they known what he was capable of?

Ronan taped a few bandages on for good measure. He hated the thought of Parrish being alone, of the cat being alone… He hated it.

There had to be someone else.

But then why would he come here?

Adam reached for the shirt, and hesitated.

‘Still damp.’ Ronan said, noting the glance around in search of his clothing.

‘I can-’

‘Stay here.’ He didn’t honestly believe that Adam would do anything. Ronan was afraid of him doing something, saying something, but he didn’t think that Adam _would_.

He felt the sigh more than he heard it.

‘Sleep.’ He added, lifting the shirt and offering it. ‘I’ll bring food up.’

Adam slowly eased it back onto one shoulder, shuffling around to meet his gaze. ‘Thank you. For all of this.’

Ronan shrugged before he could stop himself. ‘Don’t thank me yet.’

He reached out to help with the shirt, directing all of his concentration towards keeping his hands steady. He didn’t even register the door opening until Matthew was halfway through a sentence.

‘Have you seen my new blazer? With the red band around the- ’ He halted. Ronan stared at him stupidly. ‘Oh.’

He took two steps backwards and pulled the door shut.

‘Shit.’ Ronan abandoned Adam’s shirt in a burst of panic, launching himself at the bedroom door.

Matthew had made it the three metres down the hall to get back into his own room. He was already rummaging through an open dresser drawer.

‘Matt.’ Ronan fell through his doorway gracelessly. He tried to shove it closed behind him, mouth still running. ‘Matt, you gotta list-’

‘Dude.’ Matthew rolled his eyes, leaned across him to push the door until it clicked.

He could feel his heart pounding. What was he so afraid of? _That Matthew would tell. That Niall would find out about Adam. That he’d deal with the cat the only way he could deal with a criminal who knew too much about the Widower._

‘You can’t tell Mom and Dad.’ Ronan pleaded. ‘You can’t tell anyone.’

‘I know.’ Matthew, grinning, caught both of his arms and tried reasonably effectively to make him stand still. ‘Dude, chill. _I get it_.’

And he shook Ronan, just slightly, with an indulgent smile, before releasing him.

‘Anyway, get out of my room.’


	21. The one with all the sulking

When Ronan finally mustered the courage to go downstairs for breakfast, Matthew was at the table with their parents.

He seemed entirely unperturbed by the conversation they’d had about Adam, and was even generous enough to ignore the immediate and unstoppable rush of colour to Ronan’s face.

Aurora gestured to him, demanding increased affection after a week-long break from their company. He hugged her while still standing, trying to avoid eye contact. ‘How’re you feeling, baby?’

‘I’m…’ He searched for a word, found nothing, trailed off.

‘Hm.’ Niall pointed at him with a table knife. ‘I see what you mean.’

Matthew nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘What?’ Ronan sank into a chair, unable to think of what to eat, what to do. He had no idea what Matthew might have said, and he’d never been a good liar. Niall could spot it a mile away.

‘You don’t look good, Ro.’ Niall observed, calmly. ‘Are you sure Declan fixed you up right?’

Aurora hummed a noise of disapproval, possibly distress, but didn’t speak.

‘He did.’ Ronan felt the blood leaving his face at the prospect of another impromptu surgery. ‘I… took a hit. Wednesday night.’

This was the window to mention the cyborg. Ronan felt dizzy, glanced at Matthew, placidly eating a stack of toast.

‘Are you hurt?’ Aurora leaned forward, pressed her hand to his cheek. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’

‘I’m fine. Caught my priors, that’s all. I don’t need… anything.’ _Please_.

‘You should stay home today.’ Aurora decided.

Ronan glanced at Matthew again, startled. He’d set the conversation up, manipulative little shit. He’d known exactly how their mother would react in response to Ronan’s appearance.

Niall queried; ‘Any work due?’

‘Monday.’ Ronan admitted.

‘Sounds reasonable.’ His father shrugged. ‘I’ll take a look at those scars this evening though. Take it easy until then.’

 _Now_ Matthew permitted himself a victorious smirk.

 

 

 

Adam was asleep again. On his side, face tucked between pillows. Ronan hesitated over waking him, over watching him, and settled for ineffectively attempting to make his room look as though it was inhabited by something other than a caveman.

Matthew shouted something unintelligible up the stairs, and a few minutes later Ronan watched the BMW peel out along the drive at some speed, as was Niall’s habit.

He sank onto the end of his bed and dragged in oxygen.

 _Adam was the cat._ A thief. A criminal. Most significantly… not human.

No. Most significantly, he was still _Adam_.

No matter how hard Ronan pressed his thoughts towards doubt, they wouldn’t yield. He was the same person Ronan endlessly watched, contemplated, dreamed about.

He’d never had enough knowledge about Parrish for this to feel like a betrayal. It wasn’t enough of a shock to dislodge how he felt.

Worse. A version of Parrish who knew he was the Widower and had never even hinted at it, who moved and fought and _talked_ like the cat, who was something _else_ , threatened to aggravate an obsession that already consumed the majority of Ronan’s time, energy, and rationality.

He glanced at the motionless entity on the spare mattress. The blanket rose and fell, the Earth kept spinning, and Ronan could feel his focus narrowing to a single sensation.

He nudged the mattress, gently. If Parrish needed the sleep, it was hardly worth disturbing him, but they had free reign over the rest of the house, now, including the bathroom and the kitchen.

Adam shifted, slightly at first, then with increasing interest. ‘Staying?’

‘Guess so.’

‘Matthew?’

‘He…’ Ronan grimaced, felt himself blushing. ‘He… Did you take my pillow?’

Parrish fastened an arm around his pillows defensively. ‘You weren’t using it.’

‘You…’ Ronan opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally managed to mumble. ‘I guess.’

Adam relaxed his grip, but continued watching Ronan, demonstrating no willingness to sit up. ‘What did you say to your brother?’

‘I- ’ He searched for an excuse, any excuse. ‘He didn’t-’

Adam blinked. ‘Oh.’

Ronan staggered to a stop mid-sentence, certain he was redder than a beet.

‘He thinks we’re…’ Adam’s voice was light, faintly curious.

Ronan stared at the window, forced himself to concentrate on the _more important_ aspects of the situation.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ He shrugged, took a breath. ‘He won’t mention it, and he doesn’t… know. You’ll be safe here.’

‘People are looking for me.’ Adam explained softly. ‘I won’t stay for long.’

‘People working for Skynet?’

Adam smirked, forgivingly amused. ‘I think so.’

‘Why you?’ Ronan had been in the same fight. Arguably, he’d been the one to start it.

Adam sat up, holding Ronan’s bed for balance. ‘I took something. From the robot.’

‘Cyborg.’ Ronan frowned at him. ‘What did you take?’ Trust the thief to overstep his boundaries. Hadn’t he already had his jacket full of stolen jewellery?

‘A transmitter.’

‘It followed you.’ Shit. _Shit_. ‘Did it ID you?’

‘Not… yet. I don’t think.’ Adam’s composure slipped, marginally. ‘I shouldn’t have dragged you into it.’

‘We’ll survive.’ Ronan said dismissively. ‘Did it give any clue as to what that thing is?’

‘Nothing. I dropped it before I ran into you, though.’

There was a moment of silence. Parrish seemed to have resigned himself to having the uncomfortable conversation, seemed to be waiting for Ronan’s curiousity.

‘If you were human,’ Ronan remarked finally. ‘You wouldn’t have survived that.’

‘No.’

‘But you don’t know where you come from?’

Adam shook his head.

‘How did you _hide_ it?’

Ronan had grown up in a family fully aware of his abilities. It was the only reason he’d never been hunted down by the government, or worse, for doing unpredictable superhuman things during his childhood.

‘The people who found me.’ Adam tipped his chin up to look at the ceiling. ‘Hid me when I was young, taught me to survive when I was older.’

‘You were never adopted?’

‘No.’

‘How did you-’

‘Forged papers.’

‘Jesus.’ Ronan turned his attention back to the window.

Adam was a complete unknown. He might have been another creation, a modified genetic code. It would explain why he looked so human, at least when he wasn’t in the mask.

He still felt absurdly familiar. Maybe even more familiar, now that he was equivalent to the cat.

‘How do you change?’ Ronan pressed. His eyes, fangs. He’d insisted they were real, but Ronan wanted to _see_ it.

‘It’s… easy.’ Adam considered the question. ‘Just… like blinking.’

He didn’t offer a demonstration, and Ronan instinctively shied away from asking.

‘You recognised me.’ Adam noted, in return. ‘Anyway.’

‘Not until yesterday.’ Ronan confessed. He was wondering how to explain it… the expectation of seeing Adam, finding the cat instead. A collision of impressions. An unexpected synthesis of feeling.

Adam looked across at him questioningly. ‘At the window?’

‘At school.’ Ronan yielded. Barely anything to do with the cat pinning him down, so close Ronan could see the butterfly pulse in his throat. Nothing to do with his weight, the whispered warnings or the heat of his breath curling past Ronan’s ear.

He cleared his throat, forcefully. ‘I should’ve realised before.’

‘Before yesterday?’ Adam’s half-smile was almost teasing. ‘How would you?’

‘My powers of deduction.’ Ronan answered dryly. ‘Such as they are.’

‘It’s not something I’m trying to broadcast.’

‘Seriously?’ Ronan grinned. ‘You’re as much a thief at school as in the mask.’

Adam’s expression shifted towards a frown. ‘What?’

‘Boatshed B&E, skittles theft… Gostelow’s parents’ place got broken into when he was at the rowing tournament last month, apparently.’

Ronan had been watching Gansey during the same tournament, had only heard about the break-in the following week. It hadn’t occurred to him at the time that it might have been the cat, but in retrospect, Aglionby was ripe with potential targets. The cat could have had its pick of people to steal from just by listening to idiots talking about their summer vacation plans.

Adam kept his eyes narrowed, evidently not as amused as Ronan by the subject. ’You think I’m a thief?’

‘I _know_ you’re a thief.’ Ronan snorted. It wasn’t worth mincing words, given that Ronan had seen his pockets overflowing with stolen objects on multiple occasions.

Still, hesitation, but Parrish’s feelings were as difficult to identify as ever. He asked diffidently; ‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because I’ve-’ Ronan experienced sudden discomfort, a combination of doubt and suspicion, but he forced out the rest of the sentence, sharply conscious of his own words. ‘- watched you.’

Silence. They eyed each other. Ronan fought to comprehend his own anxiety.

He couldn’t tell - he trusted Adam, but _he couldn’t tell_ \- when Parrish was lying. Or what he was lying about. Or what he expected Ronan to hide, or acknowledge. Or what he expected Ronan to know.

The blanket hit him in the face. He saw it coming, for a nanosecond, but was too baffled to deflect. Adam must have lunged, dragging it up with him, because the moment after it caught across Ronan’s face, obscuring his vision, the weight followed.

He fell backwards, unbalanced, and they rolled off the end of the mattress and hit the floor. He landed on his side, still unable to see, clutching to try and remove the blanket, and his head hit the bed frame as Adam dug a knee into his waist and shoved him onto his back.

He cursed, instinctively defending with a blind strike to the abdomen, and cursed again for good measure. He could get his free arm - as free as possible between the bed and Adam - around the back of Adam’s neck, and he was sufficiently annoyed to yank him forwards. He felt and _heard_ Parrish’s face hit his collarbone, and Adam’s infuriated hiss.

His other arm was tangled in the blanket, one of his legs was trapped under the other and Parrish was crushing both, but Ronan had the leverage to roll sharply towards the bed and even more sharply the opposite direction, using Parrish’s weight to help flip their positions. He clawed the blanket off while trying to pin Adam’s limbs down, grimly aware that he could only keep the upper hand because Parrish was weakened by his injuries.

He took a fist to the ribs, and felt Adam’s fingers catch (in a distinctly unromantic way) in his hair.

‘ _Fuck_.’ He snatched the offending arm, tried to dislodge Parrish’s grip, and when that failed he dropped his weight on the forearm resting across Adam’s breastbone.

It was a dirty move. He heard Adam gasp, and as soon as his hair was relinquished he pulled back, retreated a few metres away, and tried to catch his breath.

_So much for not hurting him._

‘You…’ He closed his eyes, ran a hand through his curls to ascertain that nothing, in reality, had been ripped out. ‘… _shithead_.’

When he opened them again, Parrish had dragged himself to the far wall, beside the wardrobe, and was glaring at Ronan viciously.

‘You’re the _Widower_.’

It was accusing. Not questioning. Not uncertain. Not hopeful, or conciliatory. Just angry.

Ronan was still breathing heavily, waiting for the cat’s next move, and it took a moment for the words to sink in.

‘You didn’t know?’

He hadn’t known?

_How could he not have known?_

How could neither of them have known?

‘Know?’ Adam’s voice, picking up volume and dropping octaves in frustration, was inescapably reminiscent of the rooftop encounter on Wednesday night. ‘How would I _know_ that?’

His expression twisted; ‘ _How_ are you-’,eyes widening; ‘-your _father_ -’, and gradually slackened; ‘- you got _shot_?’

Ronan couldn’t produce an answer, but he didn’t need to. Within a few seconds Adam’s fury returned with full force; ‘ _Food poisoning_ , Lynch? You were _dying_.’ His face went blank. ‘It’s not even been a week. How are you… How did you…’

In spite of himself, Ronan muttered; ‘Yeah, see, I did all this last night.’

Adam eased himself into the corner of the wall and the wardrobe, let his head drop forlornly against the wood. He was pale, again. Ronan wondered if he’d opened a wound, or just caused Parrish a shitload of pain.

‘Why’d you do that?’ He demanded, mournfully pressing his palm against his hair. ‘Fuck’s sake.’

Adam winced himself further into the corner. ‘You might have been a threat.’

‘Thanks.’ Ronan scowled. ‘You dick.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Adam sighed. ‘I didn’t _know_.’

‘Then why-’ The question was out of Ronan’s mouth before he’d fully thought it through. ‘-did you come _here_?’


	22. Why are my stories so long? Jesus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't know I had any faith to lose, but here we are. No brave new world, for us, just the gradual, miserable disintegration of the old one.   
> fiction is consolation, and I am so grateful to everyone who has been kind to me, who has made my writing feel like a contribution to someone's time instead of a demand on it.

He decided on soup. Sick people loved soup. Badly injured cat-people probably felt the same. Chicken soup, with pasta shells. And toast. And melted cheese.

Gave Ronan an excuse to be downstairs in the kitchen with Lúthien, anyway.

He didn’t know where things stood with Parrish. It was a relief to not have to think about it, even for just a few minutes.

He knew Ronan was the Widower, now that Ronan had stupidly revealed it. He’d easily recognised Niall’s role, and without a doubt he’d determine the implications for Declan and Matthew.

Celery was healthy, wasn’t it? It probably contributed to healing somehow.

Ronan sliced a stick of celery.

‘I trusted…’ Adam’s voice, drifting in through the open door. He was still shadowed in the hall, nearly out of sight. ‘I _trust_ … you.’

He hadn’t answered, earlier. He hadn’t said anything.

And Ronan had opted for a tactical retreat.

His fingers curled around the doorframe, before the rest of him appeared, moving considerably slower and more carefully after their brief skirmish.

‘I don’t understand how neither of us… realised.’ He added, more tautly, and Ronan snorted.

‘I’m a vigilante, not a detective.’ He replied defensively.

‘Weak.’ Adam cleared the doorframe, eyebrows raised.

Ronan’s track pants were too long for him. He dragged the hems when he walked. The shirt was two sizes too big, also, but it didn’t fit Ronan either. Flannel, for warmth. It made Parrish resemble an undersized cowboy.

‘You know…’ Adam leaned on the nearest kitchen bench. ‘You know, there’s a lot to take in.’

Ronan grimaced at his chopped vegetables. ‘I’m aware of that.’

‘I thought… I thought this was you.’ A half-hearted gesture, one hand that didn’t make it far from Parrish’s ribs. ‘Didn’t see past it.’

‘Parrish.’ Ronan scooped the vegetables and dropped them into the pot of stock. ‘I’m not judging your skills of observation. Or lack thereof.’

Adam sighed. Dramatically.

‘Parrish.’ Ronan repeated, electing to lift the chopping board over the pot so he could get the stragglers into the soup and turn away from Adam in one motion. ‘This isn’t _my_ secret.’

There was silence. Ronan could hear Lúthien jumping on Adam’s legs, could hear him scratching her head.

‘I’m not going to say anything.’ He sounded faintly surprised. ‘Christ, Ronan, what would I say?’

‘I don’t know.’ Ronan retorted, stirring unnecessarily. ‘You’ve got… people.’

‘You’ve got family.’ Adam responded softly. ‘You didn’t tell them.’

 _Damn_.

‘Honestly? I don’t want to see that fight.’

His answer was an amused hum. ‘Your father _is_ stronger than me.’

‘Yeah?’ Ronan glanced over his shoulder. ‘Me too.’

It wasn’t unexpected, exactly, but it was still interesting. And a little embarrassing, as a reminder that both Niall and Adam could kick his ass. Once upon a time, Declan would have been able to, as well, but he’d let his training slide.

‘You inherited this.’ Adam murmured.

Ronan shifted his weight from foot-to-foot. ‘Yeah. I guess.’

‘Genetics.’

When Adam went quiet, Ronan risked another glance at him. His spine was tingling, the whole way down. It was a rush, just talking about this. It was a thrill, to know that Adam knew what he was.

Surreal, though. Like a waking daydream.

With one typical feature missing.

‘How far back… does it go?’

Ronan turned his back to the pot on the stove, curiosity winning out over self-restraint. He understood Parrish’s line of thinking. He wanted to answer, he wanted to know what Adam would think. It still felt like crossing a line, like breaking a promise.

‘Just Dad.’ He answered. ‘Dad and then us.’

An experiment. Part human, part test-tube.

What else was there?

Whatever Adam was.

Ronan was desperate to ask, terrified that Adam wouldn’t want to answer. He’d been spooked enough by Ronan calling him a thief.

He could see Adam processing it, working through the explanations, the probabilities. Niall, the renowned scientist. Ronan, a genetic aberration.

‘Your brothers?’

Ronan swallowed, nodded.

‘Matthew?’

‘Yeah.’

’Jesus.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why the Widower?’

For a moment the question was baffling. Ronan intended to say; _“Because he’s my father,”_ but his brain kicked in before he’d finished opening his mouth.

He made himself stop, think about how to phrase it. They’d already discussed this, at some point. The whole topic felt familiar, but the cat hadn’t bought the story then, either.

‘Our design. We’re aggressively adapted for combat. What else would we do?’

He thought, momentarily, that Adam had nodded, but he’d merely frowned at the floor. ‘Ronan, you’re… seventeen. In high school.’

 _So what?_ It was a childish response, Ronan bit it down. Adam Parrish was entitled to run around and rob people, but Ronan couldn’t interrupt a few street crimes? He was still superhuman, even if he wasn’t as strong as Parrish.

‘You were shot.’ Adam didn’t look up. His frown was fixed, thoughtful. ‘You bled out. You nearly drowned.’

He was serious. Ronan could feel his resolve (and his ego) crumbling at the prospect of Adam actually being _worried_ …

He replied abruptly; ‘And you saved my life. No harm, no foul.’

‘Bullshit.’ Anger again. Adam raised his gaze. ‘I _didn’t_ _know_ it was you.’

Ronan heard himself scoff, sounding significantly more dismissive than he felt. ‘So you would have let me die?’

‘No.’ Adam pushed off the bench, hands curling into fists. Within a heartbeat, hardly a blink at all, his eyes were golden. Still pissed, but completely golden, pupils narrowed to slits. ‘You shouldn’t have _been there_.’

Inadvertently, Ronan found himself pressing back against the stove. More out of respect than actual humility, because regardless of transformative powers Parrish was still throwing a tantrum in his pyjamas.

He righted himself, with as much dignity as possible, and crossed his arms. ‘I’m not a child, Parrish.’

‘You are…’ Adam hesitated, presumably to brainstorm an adequate insult. It wasn’t what Ronan had predicted; ‘… a friend. Don’t you think you have too much to lose?’

A _friend_. Ronan’s brain was overheating.

‘Can’t afford to think that if I’m gonna do this.’

What was the point in fighting if you only fought when you knew you’d win? That was a coward’s game.

The cat. He’d risked the cat, too, on the freighter. He regretted it. He would change it, if he could. Would have even before he knew it was Adam.

‘Then don’t.’ Adam returned to his lean, wincing. His eyes had recoloured to blue, so quickly it seemed like the change had never happened. ‘Don’t do it. Stop.’

Ronan lifted his shoulders, dropped them. ‘No.’

‘Do you not understand- ’ Adam’s voice was quiet, but cold. ‘- how close you’ve come to dying?’

He was so _serious_. It made Ronan want to sink to the floor and stare.

‘I understand.’ It sounded smaller than he intended. Less certain. He forced out more; ‘I’m built for this. What’s the point of me, otherwise? It’s not a big deal.’

Adam closed his eyes, took a breath. Ronan could practically see him talking himself down.

‘You think it’s worth sacrificing yourself for the people you’re saving?’

‘God, Parrish, I never knew you were such an elitist.’ It was a reflexive hit, a shitty comeback, but Ronan hadn’t been expecting a lecture on his own mortality, from Adam Parrish, no less.

A glancing, stinging glare. Ronan felt simultaneously disappointed in his own needling and gleeful about provoking the response. Adam’s emotional control was evidently depleted along with his strength and energy. This wasn’t fair.

But Ronan wasn’t above using it to his advantage.

‘You jumped a cyborg. _Twice_.’ Twice, to save different versions of Ronan. Twice, with the ridiculous intention of preventing his death and the full knowledge that it wasn’t a winnable fight. ‘You fought Maljevic’s crew. And fished me out of a river. And… ’

CPR.

_Hell. That was a thought he wasn’t prepared for._

He trailed off, unable to form a coherent sentence _,_ and hastily turned back to his soup.

‘Because it was you.’ Adam sounded practically exasperated. ‘Either way.’

Ronan wondered if he could climb into the soup and dissolve his traitorous red face. Parrish was so brazenly… honest. And so inexplicably… attached.

He wondered if maybe he’d never made it out of the river, and this was all some insane fantasy concocted in the last few seconds of an oxygen starved brain.

‘I’ve never met someone else who wasn’t human.’ Adam added.

‘You’ve met four.’ Ronan pointed out.

‘I knew they existed. I didn’t think I’d meet one.’

‘Four.’

Adam ignored him. ‘Do you know others?’

‘Not personally.’ Ronan considered. ‘The cyborg. And Dad talks about others.’ He interjected before Parrish could respond. ‘Hungry?’

They sat on the living room floor, hunched over bowls on the tea chest so there was no pressure on Adam’s back. He ate like a starving animal. Ronan wished he’d chosen something quicker to make.

‘You think the cyborg isn’t human?’ Adam asked, finishing his third piece of toast, starting on a second bowl of soup.

‘You think it is?’

‘It has a face.’ Adam reflected. ‘Half a face.’

‘Big, for a human.’ Ronan commented. ‘Even with cybernetic augmentation.’

‘Something inhuman that was turned into that?’

‘Or turned itself.’

The real question, of course, was why? Why a cyborg? Why a bomb? Why a lawyer’s offices after dark?

They continued eating in silence, for a while, as Ronan snuck furtive glances over at his companion.

Adam, again, was two feet from him. Close enough to touch, and Ronan wanted to, watching Adam’s head tilt wearily towards the surface of the table.

‘D’you need drugs?’ Ronan asked loudly. Parrish twitched and straightened himself up.

‘Sorry?’ His voice was soft. Polite.

‘Pain relief, Parrish.’

Adam blinked at him, focusing, and shook his head. ‘I’m okay.’

Ronan nodded, decided to bring down the painkillers anyway, and gestured to the sofa. ‘I’m gonna clean up. Watch some TV or something.’

He took their dishes back to the kitchen, cleaned up, and returned to check that Parrish had, in fact, fallen asleep immediately.

 

 

 

There were bees in Aurora’s flowerbeds.

Dozens of them, crowding through the lavender, rosemary. Ronan had gone out to make sure there wasn’t any damage from the storm, to ensure the animals were safe, and the vegetable gardens hadn’t washed away, but he stayed out. Basking in thin sunlight, shivering in the brisk wind.

He felt… dazed.

Everything to do with Adam Parrish left him feeling unprepared, uncertain, naive. Except one thing.

He needed to stop the cyborg. It was the only option. Significant before, as the Widower, but imperative now, as Ronan Lynch. He needed to know who was working with it, too. A gang, or an organisation. Whoever the hell dared to try and hunt down Parrish.

His heart was thumping. He could hear it, over the leaves rustling overhead, branches clicking together hollowly, and the low, engulfing drone of the bees.

He wanted to tell Gansey.

Not that Parrish was the cat… obviously not. Not that he wasn’t human. Definitely not that he was a criminal.

But Adam had chosen to come to him. He liked Ronan. He considered Ronan a _friend_.

Discounting the attempt to smother him with a blanket, naturally.

The problem, among many, that Ronan couldn’t dislodge, was that the future he’d imagined for himself, after graduating, instead of college, as a fully fledged member of society… never included Adam.

Adam was… unobtainable. Unreachable. So Ronan’s plans had been predicated on not knowing him after high school. He only had an interest in the farm, in Matthew, in the Widower.

Contact with the outside world was hardly necessary, or desirable, outside of the suit. Gansey, of course, would be shipped back to D.C., but he’d come to visit. Declan would tolerate family occasions, and holidays. Matthew might leave, at some point, but Ronan wasn’t about to encourage it.

The Lynches were already wealthy. He didn’t need to earn a living. Aurora and Niall weren’t close to retirement, and even when they wanted to stay home longer, there was room on the farm for an extension. Maybe a detached building. Something close.

After school finished, he’d only intended to concentrate on the Widower.

But a chance, even the smallest chance, that he could stay in contact with Adam would change that.

He’d already accepted the probability that distance wouldn’t stop him wanting Parrish. He’d vainly hoped that time might lessen the effect. But Adam was his _friend_ , now, and that made focusing strictly on the Widower impossible. The cat would be out in the world, somewhere, demanding his attention.

Parrish didn’t even like his vigilanteism. What did _that_ mean? Numerous possibilities, but Ronan didn’t _know_.

He wanted to know.

Adam was awake when he got back, taking the painkillers with a mouthful of water straight from the kitchen tap. He wasn’t quite standing upright, and Ronan could see the outline of bandages pressing against his shirt.

He stopped in the doorway.

‘Do you really heal slow?’

Adam coughed, apparently startled, and reached for the hand towel hanging against the cupboard door. ‘I heal at a normal speed. You’re the outlier, Lynch.’

‘Out of the five people we know who _aren’t_ human, you’re the outlier.’

In the middle of drying his hands, Adam paused, and after a moment reluctantly conceded. ‘Fair point.’

He turned, gingerly. ‘You’re seriously telling me you’ve healed completely?’

‘Ehhh.’ Ronan grimaced, shrugged. ‘For the most part.’

Adam raised his eyebrows, and Ronan blushed automatically. Apparently Parrish was as curious about the healing as Ronan was about the eyes, and that meant-

‘Fine.’ He yielded, rolling his eyes with insincere carelessness. ‘I’ll show you.’

He unzipped his jacket, pulled it off, and tossed it on the counter. This was perfectly justifiable, entirely-within-character scientific interest, but the mere idea of Adam looking, wanting to look, made his stomach flip.

He wasn’t sure if he should lift his shirt, or take it off. One seemed sensible, but the other seemed more straightforward, and less like he was trying to flash a houseguest.

Adam resolved the matter, by suddenly being close enough to prevent Ronan from doing anything else. He lifted Ronan’s shirt without preamble, and apparently without noticing the nervous breakdown he’d inadvertently caused.

Inquisitive head tilt, intent frown. Clinical, detached curiosity.

Ronan would survive this as long as Parrish didn’t-

He was tense enough already that he didn’t flinch when Adam brushed the scars with his fingers, but he was reasonably certain he experienced a small cardiac arrest.

‘That…’ Adam remarked; ‘… is ridiculous.’

They were pretty neat, on Ronan’s stomach. Not exactly small, but pleasantly symmetrical, almost circular scars. Already silver, as though years had passed, patterned with raised, uneven lines.

‘Better than the back.’ He explained, over the top of Parrish’s head.

Without hesitation, Adam nudged his shoulder to make him turn. Ronan did, but not without a sigh.

He’d examined, in the mirror, the slower regeneration. It would scar worse, too, but that he didn’t mind. The exit wounds and the incisions were much bigger, still pink, strangely unwilling to heal. He hadn’t been at full fighting health since… since Adam had saved him, despite what he told Gansey.

‘What are these?’ Adam traced the lines, horizontal and diagonal.

‘Dec had to cut some stuff out.’ Ronan shrugged, uneasily. ‘Bullets splintered.’

‘Jesus.’

He felt Adam’s breath ghost across his spine, failed to suppress a shiver. Adam pulled his hand away, almost straightening up. He allowed Ronan to turn back and correct his shirt.

‘Does it hurt?’ He asked, frowning at Ronan’s abdomen.

‘Sometimes.’

Adam hadn’t backed up, but Ronan wondered how much energy he was burning just to stand in the middle of the kitchen unsupported.

He tipped his head, distracted by a new notion. ’Have you been shot before?’

Ronan caught his elbow, to steady him, to steady them both, and grinned. ‘No. First time.’

‘You should be more careful.’ He leaned into Ronan’s grip, for balance.

‘Hypocrite.’ Ronan could feel heat crawling up his neck. He was still smiling, probably looking like an idiot.

‘I was protecting _you_.’ Adam protested indignantly.

‘Yeah?’ Ronan laughed. ‘I was protecting me too.’


	23. How long do you think I can stretch this out for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last one was short and kinda-nothing... So have a long one with angst. And all my love.

He thought, for a moment, that he’d made Adam laugh, but the hum of noise rapidly shifted into a bass rumble in the distance.

Adam stepped back, tipping his head to listen intently. ‘What’s that?’

Ronan released his elbow, straightened up to stare towards the front of the building. ‘Sounds like the Camaro.’ He resisted the urge to groan.

‘Gansey?’ Adam frowned. ‘School’s not finished.’

‘He’s skipping.’ Ronan rubbed his eyes. ‘He’s worried.’

‘I’ll go…’ Adam looked around thoughtfully, then upwards. ‘Upstairs?’ He turned a searching look back towards Ronan. _Where would Gansey go?_ That was the question. _What was he likely to find suspicious? Did Ronan even want to hide this from him?_

‘Push the mattress under the bed.’ Ronan suggested. ‘Put your clothes in the wardrobe. You can… rest in the guest room, if you want.’

It wasn’t safe, to have Adam in the open, in case Gansey wanted to stay. And he would, now. He’d be watching Ronan like a hawk.

Adam limped towards the doorway, and Ronan followed, determined to delay Gansey on the porch.

He wasn’t the only one climbing out of the orange car in front of the house, and that was enough to incite Ronan’s irritation. ‘Matt, you skipping last period?’

‘S’up?’ Matthew waved a hand, completely indifferent to Ronan’s tone. He continued pointedly; ‘Did you tidy up?’

Ronan cleared his throat. ‘Yeah. Sorted.’

Gansey was already halfway towards the stairs, patiently waiting for the conversation to conclude before he interjected accusingly; ‘You said you were fine!’

‘I am fine. I’m _fine_. Seriously, Gansey, you jumped the fence for this?’

‘School’s practically over.’ Matthew contributed helpfully, vaulting up the stairs to slump onto the porch swing. Equally casual, he added; ‘Exactly why Ronan doesn’t care enough to be there.’

Gansey glanced at him, his frustration fading. ‘I guess.’ He turned back on Ronan. ‘You just didn’t _say_ anything.’

‘I woke up and didn’t want to go to school.’ Ronan shrugged forcefully. ‘This week’s made me lazy.’ He considered promising that he’d make full attendance from Monday, but he couldn’t risk it. Parrish needed somewhere to lie low while he healed, and Ronan needed to make sure he didn’t starve to death.

He still felt like an asshole, though.

He’d been lying to Gansey for years about the Widower. Hell, he’d lied for long enough about what he felt for Parrish, although that could be charitably be considered omission. Now he was lying about both, to Gansey, lying about the cat and the cyborg to his father, lying to Matt about what he’d seen, lying to Parrish about what he was. His head hurt, from the sleepless night and too many questions. He wondered if this was how Gansey felt, when anxiety burrowed under his skin.

_Be a better friend._

‘Ronan.’ Gansey squared his shoulders, expression solidifying into solemnity. Ronan drew a deep, remorseful breath. This wouldn’t end well.

He trudged down the stairs off the porch, until he was opposite Gansey. Matthew stayed on the swing, watching in silence.

‘Ronan.’ Gansey grasped both of his shoulders. ‘What is going on?’

‘I swear, I’m fine-’

‘That’s not what I asked.’ Gansey stilled, alert to any sign of dishonesty. He didn’t even blink. ‘Is it about Parrish?’

Ronan cringed, just slightly, enough that Gansey might attribute it to mere discomfort at the mention of his name. Hell, it _was_.

Gansey could probably sort it, if Ronan was honest with him. Gansey could sort anything.

But Ronan couldn’t spill anybody else’s secrets.

He mumbled; ‘It is. Partly. It’s not… really about _him_. It’s just…’

Matthew moved, behind them. The front door closed.

‘Everything.’ Ronan admitted, with the strong urge to melt down to the gravel. ‘I’m… tired. And I feel like an idiot.’ 

‘You’re not an idiot.’ Gansey said firmly. ‘Though you could definitely study more than you do.’

Ronan shot him an unamused look.

‘ _What_. Is wrong?’ Gansey demanded, his grip tightening. ‘And how do I fix it?’

Ronan let part of his weight fall against Gansey’s hands. He couldn’t ask Gansey to help with any of this… but he sure as hell didn’t want to ask him to leave. ‘Snacks, man.’

Gansey contemplated him, steadily, before he relinquished a sigh. ‘It’s a start.’

Matt had already raided Ronan’s food, and was heaping grated cheese on a piece of bread in the kitchen. ‘Nice soup, bro.’

Ronan attacked a box of cookies, instead, pulling himself up on the counter. Adam was somewhere, in the house, hiding. Thinking. Possibly sleeping. Ronan ignored the impulse to go and find him, to be near him. He’d been good at ignoring all of it, before Parrish had become his lab partner. Before he’d stumbled across the cat.

He’d been fixated. That was his problem, the reason why he hadn’t been thinking anything through.

He was still fixated.

‘Homework?’

Gansey shook his head. ‘Nothing new, at least not in my classes. I think it’s just what’s already due. It’s been revision, mostly.’

Matthew hummed agreement. ‘Oh.’ He pulled something out of the pocket of his trousers, and frowned at it. ‘This is Adam’s, by the way.’

Gansey glanced over, with interest, and Ronan looked up with an equal amount of alarm.

‘I thought you could give it to him. The, uh, next time you see him.’ Matthew clarified cheerfully. He scooted across the kitchen and offered it to Ronan.

He had no idea what it was Matthew was trying to give him. It looked, for starters, like someone had stood on it. Other than that it looked like junk. Gansey peered over his shoulder curiously as Ronan picked it out of his brother’s palm. ‘The hell is it?’

‘Some part of his workshop project.’ Matthew turned his attention to Ronan’s cookies. ‘Musta dropped it during the evac.’

‘Huh.’ Ronan stared at the black plastic box hanging from the metal container. ‘Nerd.’

Matthew chuckled agreeably, and went back to check on his toasted cheese, mouth full of cookie.

It was impossible to fit the thing in his jeans pocket, so Ronan left it on the counter. He needed to talk to Gansey, to figure out a plan. There was no way he could send him home - it would be suspicious as hell, not to mention how offended Gansey would be - but hiding Parrish from him overnight would be a nightmare.

He’d have to get Matthew to help, but Matthew would ask why Ronan didn’t just pretend Parrish was visiting too. Or maybe he’d wonder why Adam hadn’t left yet, or…

God in heaven, what would he think when he realised Adam was in pain?

Ronan felt himself beginning to sweat. He made a poor attempt at nonchalance; ‘You keen to stay this weekend?’

‘Mm?’ Gansey, taking modest bites out of single cookie, actually looked apologetic. ‘I can’t. I’ve got to leave at 7 tomorrow.’

 _Shit._ Of course. Gansey was going interstate for Helen’s birthday.

Ronan had the nerve to feel both relieved and disappointed. Easier, probably, this way, but he hated it when Gansey left. It inspired a mildly paranoid feeling that he wouldn’t return. At least his reflexive frown seemed to align perfectly with Gansey’s expectations.

‘It’s cool, man.’ He shrugged it off. ‘Gonna come see the shitheads with me?’

 

 

 

Gansey was always a good sport about farm work.

He was shit at it.

But he was still a good sport.

Ronan knew it was a stretch, feeding the cows this early, but they weren’t particularly adept at telling time, and Gansey wouldn’t know. It got them both out of the house, which helped, and it lessened Ronan’s headache to be outside in the biting wind. He waited for Gansey to speak, and this time they didn’t even make it the respectable distance to the barn before he was pushing the matter.

‘Do you not want to be friends? With Adam? Is that worse?’

Ronan shot him a startled glance. ‘Christ, no. That’s… whatever.’ He rolled his eyes with the effort of not wincing.

This response didn’t seem to alleviate Gansey’s concern. ‘You don’t want to ditch him?

Ronan sighed. That was no longer a viable option, if it ever had been.

Gansey relaxed, marginally. ‘Thank God. I’m not even sure I can. I think I like him too much.’

Ronan shot him another look, but with raised eyebrows.

‘Not like that.’ Gansey said swiftly, before muttering; ‘Probably.’

He added; ‘He’s… brilliant. You know? I can’t believe how quiet he is about it.’

‘Mm-hm.’

‘How did you meet him?’ Gansey asked, pushing his hair back. ‘I mean, how did you _know_?’

No bright light, no choir singing. Ronan hadn’t _noticed_ him, precisely, when he’d arrived. And they’d never formally met, all the way up to Adam asking about the project in the corridor, unreadable, undaunted.

But they’d talked, only a couple of times, particularly after Parrish had just arrived. Or, not even talked.

That was Adam… winning Ronan over in dead silence with his mere presence.

The first time Ronan had seen him, he’d been introduced by the teacher and Ronan had ignored it.

Afterwards, some idiot from Calc made it his business to assert the hierarchy by reintroducing Parrish to everyone by their stats, and Ronan had been one of the last, which meant he’d been one of the best… but it hadn’t stopped him from wanting to punch the kid.

He’d still been fumbling with the Widower gig, still putting more effort in at school, trying (and failing) to keep on top of everything and struggling to identify his own priorities.

And Adam Parrish had been standing next to this moron, and looking at Ronan during the loudmouth’s speech, but not _quite_ at Ronan, rather more some point on the ceiling slightly above Ronan’s head. His eyes had been tracking, very gently, like he was reading a sentence, and every single aspect of his manner had alerted Ronan to the fact that Parrish didn’t give a shit, couldn’t wait to leave, and was undeniably weighing up the value of punching the idiot himself.

Ronan had laughed.

He’d been aware of Adam, after that, for the sheer entertainment of watching him quietly and effectively zone out whenever he had to listen to stupidity.

There had been a brief lab, a week or so later. Teams of four, and Parrish had been on his. It took all of fifteen minutes… or it was supposed to. Each of them had small, simple tasks to complete, but someone… _Ashworth_ … was too thick to do one straightforward job, despite Parrish’s attempted explanations, and eventually Ronan had resorted to grabbing Ashworth’s shirt and hissing at him to _just fucking do it, you assclown_ , and he had, and Parrish had looked Ronan dead in the eye and saluted.

It wasn’t then, though.

He was a curiosity, at that point, not a marvel. Ronan was listening out for his name, watching for the next point of amusement, but he wasn’t obsessed.

It might have been when Adam surpassed the Calculus idiot’s stats. Or when he beat Ronan’s stats in three of their four shared classes. Or when (according to Matthew) he meticulously constructed a functional miniature chainsaw in tech with blades sharp enough to cut through a desk.

In Physics, not long after that, the teacher had called Ronan out for forgetting his textbooks. He’d been tired, skipping studying for training, skipping sleep to study.

There was a reading, inevitably, and Ronan had nothing to read, and no Gansey to back him up, and he was prepared to be shitty about it, but Parrish had just materialised in the next seat, placed his textbook between them, and the whole issue fizzled out. The teacher shrugged and moved on. Adam was silent. Ronan answered with silence.

He wouldn’t have been able to say much, anyway. He could feel Adam’s proximity like it was branding him, even then. He wanted across at him, constantly, wanted even more for Adam to acknowledge him.

He’d watched Parrish take notes, as a mediocre compromise. He’d observed Parrish’s hands, out of the corner of his eye, for the rest of the period.

That was when he’d known he was fucked.

There was no comparison to make, but he never doubted it. Parrish was a stranger, but it didn’t make a difference. Ronan was hopeless about everything, everything. The way he moved, blinked, talked (when he talked), frowned, sat, watched, listened. The way he breathed. The way he existed, as though he’d been specially designed to fuck with Ronan’s already chaotic life.

Ronan stood in the middle of the barn, looking at Gansey in the doorway, and sensing the acceptable window for providing an answer gradually closing, and said; ‘Don’t know, man.’

He _was_ an idiot.

The fixation wasn’t new. He’d been fixated ever since that day.

The only thing that had ever really distracted him was the Widower, and now… he didn’t know.

Gansey leaned back, suddenly, and frowned. Ronan wasn’t even sure he’d heard the response.

‘Who’s that?’ Gansey asked blankly, and then, more sharply; ‘What the hell?’

 _Adam_. Ronan lurched forward.

He was close to Gansey, close enough to grab him and explain, if he needed to, when he heard the car engine.

His parents? Declan? Gansey was staring. Ronan edged past him.

There were two cars in the driveway, blocking the Camaro in. Dark-hooded. Police.

He felt himself freeze, like he didn’t have any control over his limbs. They knew. How did they know? What did they know?

He wasn’t sure if he was experiencing numbness or complete, overwhelming panic.

Gansey nudged past and strode off across the grass, towards the house, making another comment that Ronan didn’t hear. Dismissing their presence, most likely. Unperturbed, probably.

They were climbing out of the vehicles, three from the sedan, four from the SUV, and Ronan couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t process it.

But then Gansey was nearing them and someone indicated his presence and at least three people reached for their weapons. Ronan sprinted.

He caught up in a blink, dragging Gansey to a halt, waiting wildly for someone to start shooting, or to start yelling demands, but there was nothing but an officer stepping forward and calmly offering; ‘Good afternoon.’

‘Can we help you?’ Gansey sounded mildly offended, as if they’d just parked on his lawn. Ronan couldn’t speak.

‘I do hope so.’ The same officer spoke. He was older… more experienced. Grip far from his weapon, completely relaxed. There were three other men, three women, and even they were gradually withdrawing their hands. ‘Name’s James Finn. I hate to bother you, but we’ve been pursuing a suspicious individual through this area, and we’d like to take a look around, if that’s alright by you.’

It wasn’t a question. Ronan swallowed hard.

He knew they needed consent. He couldn’t say yes, because there were things in the house he couldn’t risk them seeing. He couldn’t say no, because that was suspect as hell.

Gansey cleared his throat delicately. ‘With all due respect, Officer, the owners aren’t home at this time, and I’m not in a position to agree myself, though they should be back at any moment if you’re willing to wait.’

Thank God, thank Christ for Gansey. Ronan swallowed again and glanced across at him.

More than anything, Gansey just seemed confused. Mildly peeved, as though he didn’t like what they were implying, but not worried. Ronan took a breath.

‘It’s something of an urgent requirement.’ Finn continued, placidly. ‘I’m sure the owners will appreciate your concern, but I am in possession of a warrant to search the premises that does relieve you of responsibility.’

Gansey was visibly taken aback, but he didn’t sound alarmed. ‘I see.’

It took a moment to sink in, for Ronan. It took a few seconds for the possibilities to seep down through his brain, the consequences, the potential outcomes. He needed Niall to be home, right away. He needed Gansey to hold him upright.

Matthew was still inside, _God_. Ronan didn’t want them storming in and scaring him.

Adam was…

 _Fuck_.

‘If you don’t mind just waiting outside for a few minutes, we’ll be done in no time.’ Finn added, directing several of his colleagues toward the outbuildings.

One of the younger officers stayed next to the sedan, casually pretending he wasn’t there to stop them from taking off.

‘How would they get a warrant?’ Gansey asked, with academic fascination. ‘Should I ask to see it?’

Ronan heard himself answer, thoughtlessly; ‘Do you know what it’s supposed to look like?’

Gansey frowned. ‘No.’ He tilted his head. ‘Signed.’

‘Gansey.’ He was talking, again. And breathing unevenly. He didn’t know where to start. He didn’t know if he should admit it now, to stop delaying the look of horror he knew he was going to receive.

‘Yeah…’ Gansey was leaning, trying to look through the dining room windows.

Ronan decided, on impulse, to start with his most immediate concern. ‘Adam’s here.’

‘Is he?’ Gansey replied absently. He snapped back to vertical so abruptly Ronan was surprised he didn’t hear a _twang_. ‘He’s _what?’_

Accusing, again. And more confused. And something else, that Ronan didn’t have time to recognise. ‘He’s in the house. He had a rough couple of days and he wanted a break.’

Gansey stared at him. ‘What?’

‘He didn’t want anyone to know.’ Ronan finished uselessly. He could feel fear growing in his chest, wrapping itself around his lungs and heart. If they found out about the Widower, what if they found out about Matthew? What if they found the cat’s mask?

Ronan would lie. He’d say Matthew was adopted, no, that he was the child of an affair. He’d say Matthew was human. And he’d tell them he’d taken the mask and gloves as trophies from a thief, some random he’d encountered as the Widower.

He couldn’t quite bring himself to look away from Gansey’s shocked expression, even though he wanted to. ‘He’s here?’ Hesitation. Doubt. ‘Why is he _here_?’

The door to the house banged open, and Matthew trotted down from the porch, escorted by a young woman who was still wearing her hat.

‘Yo.’ He ambled over to them readily. ‘Cops.’

The officer nodded politely to the three of them and joined the man by the car.

Under better circumstances Ronan would have been amused by the thought that Matthew deserved his own guard. His appearance had dislodged some of Gansey’s focus, but not all of it. He’d turned his gaze on the house instead.

Silence. Minutes passed. Ronan curled his hands into fists to stop them shaking, hastily spread them and drummed his fingers against his legs to avoid looking aggressive.

The door opened again, and hung there, and his heart crawled into his throat.

Another officer. Hatless. And behind him was Adam, blinking at the sunlight.

He’d definitely been asleep. He looked even more rumpled and sluggish than earlier. He studied the cars, slowly, before he glanced over towards them.

There was no evidence of fear, or uncertainty. He just seemed weary, and Ronan had the powerful compulsion to hold onto him, as if it would offer any kind of safety.

They didn’t send him across. He hadn’t left the porch yet, and one of the invaders was standing on the steps in front of him, in the way. The two who had been searching barns were coming back, one with her hand resting on her hip. Ronan wanted Adam to be closer, wanted to curl around Matthew protectively, wanted to lean against Gansey.

Finally, Finn reappeared, with his last compatriot, pausing on the porch to inspect the newly found occupants.

The guy on the stairs said; ‘Sir.’

Thoughtfully, Finn answered; ‘Steadman.’

Another pause. Matthew fidgeted, and Ronan realised he was watching, closely, waiting for Ronan’s signal.

Two were close, just near them, one with an itch to draw a gun. Two by the car, weapons holstered. One on the step, reachable in _one, two,_ Ronan could make it in two seconds. He didn’t have his webshooters, but he had Matthew.

He didn’t know if he could get to Adam before they did though. Even if one of them just grabbed him, in panic, Ronan could imagine the damage they might do.

He held his breath.

The stair-guy moved out of the way. Adam stepped down, unbothered, like he’d never been in a rush in his life. Behind him, Finn tipped his head to scrutinise Adam’s back.

There had been blood on his face, but Ronan had cleaned it off when he’d patched up his back. There had been glass in his hair. Ronan wasn’t sure he’d removed it all. He couldn’t remember scrubbing Adam’s neck, or seeing him scrub it. He didn’t know if the blood or the glass or the bandages under his shirt were noticeable.

‘Young man.’

Adam stepped onto the driveway, and stopped. He didn’t look over his shoulder. He didn’t look back. Ronan wondered if he was ready to fight, too, knew that he wasn’t. Knew that any resistance would be the end of all three of them, and probably Gansey. They could clear a path, but where would they go? Everything would collapse.

Finn dropped a hand to his gun, and Ronan felt the world shift. He jerked forwards involuntarily, heard the sound of synchronised weapon retrieval and Gansey’s yelp of; _‘Ronan!’_

There was one gun, on his right, itchy gun lady. There was a second, held by the officer next to Finn on the porch. Incredibly, nauseatingly, they were both pointing at Parrish, despite Ronan’s motion.

Steadman was watching Adam from barely three feet away.

Finn still had his hand at his hip.

‘I’m going to ask you to come with us.’

Ronan’s entire body shuddered. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. They couldn’t have him.

Adam turned, slightly, cautiously. His expression hadn’t changed. He replied gently; ‘Okay.’

Ronan snapped; ‘No.’

Nobody reacted. They weren’t interested in him, in the Widower, in the Lynches. They wanted Parrish. They’d come for Adam. He couldn’t allow it.

Finn moved his hand from weapon to handcuffs, and Gansey seemed to wake up. ‘You _can’t_ take him.’ He was outraged. ‘He’s a friend. And a _minor_.’

‘We’ll notify his guardian immediately.’ Finn was unfazed. ‘Your friend will receive all the support he needs.’

‘Are you arresting him?’ The volume of Gansey’s voice jumped. ‘For _what_?’

Matthew was inching forwards, all trace of humour gone.

Ronan couldn’t think of a plan, couldn’t think at all, until Finn got a grip on Adam’s arm.

‘ _Get your hands off him._ ’ He was moving, unexpectedly. Steadman wavered between stepping back and reaching for his gun.

‘Ronan.’ Adam’s voice was quiet. Ronan caught his gaze, and regretted it, stopped and trapped by his gravity. ‘Please.’

He didn’t look towards Matthew, but Ronan understood him. Understood this. Hated it.

Every inch of his body was trembling. He forced himself to stand still. He’d stop this. He’d get Parrish back.

His advance hadn’t slowed Finn at all, the handcuffs were already on. Something was growling in Ronan’s head, and he realised it was the BMW, skating to a stop in the small amount of space left available in the drive.

Niall. Niall would help. Ronan saw him appear, out of the car, and Aurora’s white face. Watched him stride across to the cars, intercepted by the nearest figure next to the sedan. Audibly demanding an explanation.

Someone was talking to Adam, as they led him away. It wasn’t Finn, he’d diverted towards the _adults_. There were still guns.

 _This is unbelievable,_ Gansey would say, _how dare they do this?_

Ronan pressed his hands against his thighs, watched Niall instead of Adam, watched him look over to see who was being taken, watched him check to make sure Matthew was fine.

They put Adam in the back of the SUV. Four officers to escort, passenger seat left free for Finn. Ronan forced himself to take note. It was a Chevy… he knew how to stop them. Bullet proof windows, probably, but he didn’t want anyone to be shooting. One woman, on Adam’s left. A man on the right, and a man driving, plus Finn in the front. He’d stop the car, first, so there was no chance it would roll or crash in the scuffle. He’d kill them, if he had to. He’d get Parrish out.

Finn returned to the car, leaving Niall where he stood, and the rest of them disappeared into the vehicles like the tide going out. Ronan held still, adrenaline needling his muscles until they were shaking.

The SUV pulled out, along the gravel, and the sedan followed. Ronan waited until they were out of sight.

 

 

 

He didn’t stop to talk to his father. There wasn’t time.

He needed to reach them before they disappeared. He needed to intervene before they tried to process Adam, for whatever they hell they thought he’d done. Stop them before they had an idea what he was, or at least stop them before they could do anything about it.

He might have broken the door on the way inside. Couldn’t tell. Bolted for the stairs.

Top of the stairs, thankfully his bedroom door was still open, and he could launch himself viciously, violently, towards the drawer at the bottom of his wardrobe.

Something landed on him. Weight. Lots of it. Then arms were wrapping around his chest, hauling him back, his fingers scratching desperately towards the suit.

‘Ronan. Ronan.’ Niall’s voice, reassuring but still _holding him back_. ‘Stop it now.’

‘Dad-’

‘You can’t do that.’ His father said, tightening his grasp. ‘Don’t even try it.’

Ronan struggled, breath catching, boots scraping on the carpet. ‘I need to get him back.’

‘You can’t.’ He was too calm. It was infuriating to hear him so calm. ‘You can’t.’

‘You don’t know-’

‘Let it go, Ronan.’

‘I… _can’t_ -’

‘It’s over, Ronan.’ Niall shook him, like he could rattle some sense out of his brain. ‘Let him go.’

Ronan whimpered, once, and stopped fighting.


	24. The deep dark down deep dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks. It would appear I can be functional, or I can be creative. Apparently I can't do both. Sorry to everyone who will get a reply to a two-week old message, but I really do appreciate your comments.

Ronan pressed his face into the comforter over his bed, stifling his breathing.

His father’s hand was heavy on the back of his neck, not holding him down, but definitely not releasing him. He knew Ronan was crying, but he also knew he’d won.

 _They know what he is,_ Niall had said, _there’s nothing you can do_.

Ronan could have stopped them. Should have stopped them.

What would they do to him?

_Take him apart._

_Take him to pieces._

He couldn’t… _couldn’t…_ face the thought. Couldn’t think of someone drawing Adam Parrish’s blood without his own blood rising. Couldn’t imagine him in pain without feeling pain.

There were other questions, hundreds of them, flooding through Ronan’s consciousness in a tidal wave. He knew them, recognised them… _how did Niall know, how much did Niall know, how had they found Adam, how had they ignored the Widower inches away, how had Ronan let him go, how had it happened in the safest place he knew_ … but the only thing that registered, that he really understood, was a single demand - _get him back_.

Irrational, without a doubt.

Parrish wasn’t his. His father, the one who knew, who understood these things, was telling him to stop.

But it was _Adam_.

Eventually, when the energy faded, when Ronan was curled breathless and broken on the floor next to his bed, Niall left. It wasn’t a callous thing… but Gansey and Matthew were still in the house. Aurora too. Niall might have known about Adam - _how? -_ but that didn’t mean the others did. It didn’t explain why Ronan had disappeared, lost his temper and his common sense on the staircase. Been locked away for nearly an hour now, just being held back from some lunatic attempt at recovering his friend.

Niall left, when he thought Ronan had regained enough self-control to be alone. Or maybe when he though Parrish was too far gone to be followed.

Gansey replaced him, edging into the room in silence. He sat on the carpet next to Ronan, so close that their ribs were pressed together and Ronan could feel his deep, uneven breathing. He wouldn’t understand what was happening, and Ronan owed him an explanation, but it hurt to talk, to think.

The door opened again, footsteps padded over and the bed dipped, and something warm and squirmy was lowered to Ronan’s chest.

Matthew had brought Lúthien, but he, too, was grimly silent.

It was Ronan’s fault, that Adam had gone quietly. That he’d been off his guard when they found him, and that he’d surrendered to protect Ronan’s family. It was Ronan’s fault he’d been hurt at the school, when the Widower could have stepped in, and his fault that the cat had been tangled up with the cyborg in the first place.

It didn’t make sense, for the police to come after him… What for? The thieving? For being something different? How had they found him? How did they know anything about him at all?

‘We’ll get him back.’ Gansey murmured finally. ‘I called everyone I could.’

He’d spent the previous hour throwing his weight around, Ronan realised. It wasn’t likely to have helped, much, if they knew they had a captive inhuman, but Gansey wouldn’t know that. Ronan blinked miserably against the carpet, arms looped desperately around the puppy.

‘He came to _me_ , Gansey.’ He was entirely aware of how pathetic he sounded, but he didn’t care. ‘I told him he’d be safe.’

‘From what?’ He could hear Gansey’s frown, and his _disbelief_. Gansey probably couldn’t imagine Adam was capable of doing something illegal, let alone… living the whole criminal mastermind lifestyle.

He couldn’t tell Adam’s secrets now, as if they’d already lost him. He couldn’t face the idea of accepting Adam wasn’t coming back, never actually seeing him again. But Niall had said; _He’s gone_.

They wouldn’t get him back.

 

 

 

It was a chain link cage. Just metal, large gaps, four walls, a roof, and a door that jingled when it was opened or closed.

Adam wasn’t sure if it was exactly… adequate.

To be fair, it was a cage inside a room. And there were people in body armour with guns surrounding it. And the room appeared to be a concrete bunker, with a floodlight in each corner and security cameras catching every inch.

And Adam’s wrists were sealed to a metal table by inch thick steel manacles.

That was a little more flattering.

He’d had plans, since he was a child. Numerous plans, for different scenarios. If the police found him, if they caught him, if they questioned him, if they found out he wasn’t human. He had a plan for this, the “locked up with no way out” scenario, and that was to avoid panicking and wait it out.

It wasn’t a very detailed plan.

He’d imagined the fear. The sensation of being trapped, helpless, and scrutinised. He hadn’t bargained on the pain burning through his shoulders, back, wrists and his bad arm. It had been hours, he thought, since the painkillers had worn off.

He’d imagined what they might do to him as an attempt to desensitise himself. The cuffs, definitely. Needles and knives. Tests of his strength, speed, flexibility. His durability. A cell without a door, if he survived long enough.

He wondered if Ronan was alright.

It had been disconcerting, to watch him flare up. Turn from Ronan Lynch into the Widower, without the suit. Adam wasn’t sure if he really would have fought, risked everything he had, but he’d made a convincing show of it. It was too much to lose, for Adam to let him do it. Ronan was too much to lose.

He was the Widower. He was the vigilante.

The door jingled. Adam jerked his head up.

Two men entered the cage, both wearing button-up shirts and suit pants. Neither of them were armed, as far as he could tell. One was sporting an expensive watch, the other wore silver-framed glasses. They were both big, but unmarked, clean-shaven, neatly dressed. It didn’t mean they weren’t bruisers, but that wasn’t going to be their lead-in.

There were two metal chairs on the opposite side of the table to Adam’s, and he watched the figures settle into them.

‘Adam Parrish.’ One of them lowered a thin folder to the surface of the table. ‘Apologies for the wait.’

He dipped his head in slow acknowledgement, but didn’t speak. It had been hours, in the cage. Hours before that, in a white-walled box, after being ordered to change into a grey plastic jumpsuit. Hours spent on a metal bench in the back of a truck with a hood over his head and his hands chained to the floor.

The police had bundled him off, fairly quickly. A fifteen minute ride to the station parking garage, and they’d pulled him out of the SUV just to push him into the back of the truck.

It made sense, that they didn’t want to deal with him. It made sense he was someone else’s problem. It even made sense that they’d tried to do it subtly, avoid alarming wealthy landowners like the Lynches by sending in the police instead of the military.

That didn’t mean the men in front of him were soldiers, but the ones outside the cage probably were.

They knew what he was, though. Not just a thief. Something else.

‘Not really your name.’ It wasn’t a question, and Adam didn’t answer. An irrational knot of anxiety tightened in his gut ( _it wasn’t as though they didn’t already know_ ) and he let his gaze drop to the table.

‘But we’ll call you Adam.’ Watch guy was talking, while Glasses observed. His voice was calm, not cold, not friendly. Purely business.

‘There isn’t much to know about you, after all.’ The closed folder illustrated his point. ‘A fake birth certificate doesn’t lend itself to certainties.’

 _Shit_. Either they’d gotten a copy from the school, or they’d searched the Wyvern building. Adam had already suspected he’d never be allowed back in, but now he was sure of it.

‘Impressive academic record.’ He didn’t sound impressed. ‘Although lacking in extracurriculars. Getting a scholarship to Aglionby through Gillespie is a formidable achievement.’

‘Didn’t even start at Gillespie until middle school. No attendance before that, contrary to what their records claim. No evidence of how old you actually are, your real name, your birthplace, your childhood. You’ve managed a lot, for someone without a past.’

He paused, possibly to see if Adam supplied a explanation.

‘Raises a few questions, though. Who you are. What you are. Where you came from.’ He tapped the folder with his index finger. ‘But there’s time for all that.’

Adam lowered his head. It was uncomfortable with his arms pinned against the table, unless he leaned forward, and that made his back ache. More than anything else he was tired. Anxiety had worked through his muscles, regardless of the plan to avoid panic, and there was no indication that there would be an opportunity to sleep anytime soon.

‘We keep track of…’ It was the first hesitation Adam had heard, but he recognised the precision behind it. ‘ _People_ like you. Inhumans. Mutants. Aliens.’

‘Right now, we’re not particularly concerned about you. You have no family, no reputation. We can tidy you away somewhere safe and it’s not going to cause any problems.’

‘But as I’ve said, there’s plenty more to find out about your past. Sometimes that can be a painful process. It can take a long time, and it’s typically unpleasant for everyone involved.’

Adam felt one of his stomach muscles cramp, and twitched involuntarily.

’To a certain degree, it depends on what assistance you can offer us.’

No.

‘We have other priorities, as you can probably imagine. More pressing concerns.’

_No._

‘Take the Widower, for example. Clearly he’s something other than human, but he’s taken it upon himself to deliver justice to the people of your charming city. Wonderful, in theory, because he’s stronger than the average person, faster, tougher, and ready to get his hands dirty. He’s also anonymous, and disconnected. Where’s his accountability? Where does he acquire his moral certainty? What prevents him from making mistakes?’

‘People like the idea of the vigilante, Adam, but they don’t want to face the reality of him. He thinks he’s God, and he might well be close. Who would be able to stop him? Who would be able to reason with him? How can we be sure, when he decides to act, that he’ll always be acting for the benefit of mankind?’

‘I’m sure all of that is of little interest to you. My point is that the Widower is of greater importance to us than you are. At least for the moment, while there’s a good possibility of finding him.’

‘I’ll admit, I have my doubts that you’ll be of much help. Apparently you’ve been known to associate with him, but I just don’t find that very likely. Maybe you happened to catch a glimpse of him at some time and you took the risk of getting involved. Maybe he didn’t leave you much of a choice. Either way, he’s not really the “associate” type, and you ended up here instead of him, so it doesn’t seem like he’s all that worried about you either.’

Another twinge of pain, and Adam fidgeted, metal bruising his skin. Hunger, mixed with fear, was making him feel sick. Watch didn’t seem fazed by his silence, but at some point they’d expect a response. To sell out Ronan, of all people? Adam wouldn’t do it.

He wasn’t sure how much they actually _knew_. There hadn’t been any mention of the stealing, yet, but how else would they know what he was?

There was another, careful pause, but Watch didn’t sound surprised by the lack of an answer when he continued.

‘You attacked someone who works for us.’ His tone had shifted, slightly. The threat of retaliation wasn’t hidden. ‘In what was apparently a misguided effort to defend the Widower. There’s a good chance you misunderstood the situation, but he had a pretty vital task to complete, and you directly hindered his ability to do that.’

Attacked?

Jesus Christ, did he mean the cyborg?

Glasses pulled something out of his pocket and placed it on the table. Automatically, Adam lifted his chin to see it.

It was the tracker, still deconstructed. He felt like an idiot for not realising the logic of the situation sooner.

 _Secondary transmitter_. It was a goddamn _beacon_ to set off in the middle of a fight.

They were trying to trap the Widower. Trying to catch him. And they were using that monstrosity of a creature to do it.

He didn’t say anything, but he could feel them watching. Judging his comprehension. Feel the drift towards smugness.

‘Especially given that you impeded his success, it seems only fair that you provide information which could assist us in locating the Widower. I’m not assuming you have such useful information, but if you did, now would be the time to share it.’

‘And if not… Well. His task wasn’t a complete failure.’

Adam swallowed the urge to puke on the table.

They gave him time “alone” to think it over. He didn’t know how much, exactly, but his body cycled him out of hunger and back to hollow exhaustion. Thirst rose and fell, too. Shifting to try and alleviate the pain between his arms and his back only succeeded in making both worse.

He kept thinking about Ronan, inadvertently. The Widower had been filed away to the recesses of his mind, but Lynch was practically still a disengaged concept. He wished he’d kissed him, in the kitchen. Or at least he wished he’d asked if he could. Ronan probably would have thrown him out. Or maybe he would have assumed the concussion was rendering Adam insensible. But he’d have gotten a chance to say _something_ , before winding up sentenced to imprisonment and probable torture for the rest of his (slowly shrinking) lifetime.

It made more sense, now, at least. Ronan’s self-containment. His academic disinterest. His unwillingness to leave.

Maybe it explained the degree of Adam’s fascination, too. Maybe he sensed Lynch’s familiarity, their unique affinity.

It seemed more probable he found Ronan particularly attractive because he was just frustratingly attractive.

When the door jingled, Adam didn’t bother looking up. Watch and Glasses took their seats, and one of them slid a silver case onto the table.

There wasn’t a question. Not even the suggestion of a question. Maybe they didn’t expect him to spill any secrets. Maybe they genuinely didn’t believe he had anything to say.

It wasn’t as though they’d let him go. He’d still be locked up, just a little less bruised for it. There was no assurance that they’d honour the dangled offer of benevolence anyway. If they got their hands on the Widower, sure, they’d be distracted, but not forever.

They waited for a bit. Talked between themselves about a sports game, and the threat of unseasonal weather, but it was difficult to follow while fatigue was dragging Adam’s head down.

He heard the chairs scraping on the floor, and the click of the case opening. Shivered when hands dragged the sleeve of the jumpsuit up his arm. He could ignore the discomfort, to make the process go more quickly. Resistance wasn’t going to win him any favours.

‘That’s fine.’ It was a conciliatory tone. ‘We’re looking forward to learning about you.’

A loop around his arm, tightening until it hurt. Adam pressed his eyes closed, tried to relax.

’Where we’ll start, obviously, is what exactly you are.’ The needle stung, but only slightly. ‘And after that, I guess… we’ll think of something.’

 

 

‘Were those friends of yours?’

Adam had lost track of time. He’d lost track of his hunger, too. The dehydration seemed mildly convenient, however, given that they hadn’t released him from the table.

He was sure the soldiers (were they soldiers?) outside had been different before, but he knew he hadn’t slept, because he couldn’t lean far enough forward or back to put his head down.

Even Watch seemed mildly bored, sitting opposite him for the first time in… three, four hours? Maybe longer. He’d come and gone a few times since they’d taken Adam’s blood, but Glasses was yet to return.

‘That you were staying with.’ Watch clarified, noticing Adam’s dull blink. ‘Not that they’d be friends now, obviously. Fairly embarrassing, to get your house raided because of a teenager playing fugitive.’

‘I think they were told it was drugs, too.’ He added, without malice. ‘Drugs are always a good explanation. Nobody wants to get involved with that.’

Other voices filtered into his awareness, indistinct, but the cage rattled when someone stuck their fingers through the metal.

‘Cope.’ It was barely a whisper, but Adam could hear the urgency in it. He forced himself to listen, letting his eyes drift closed. ‘You’re not going to believe this.’

Watch stood up, moved away from the table.

‘Human. Unmutated. Unaltered. _Human_.’

‘Don’t be fucking smart.’

‘I made them test it again. Why d’you think it took so fucking long?’

‘You’ve gotta be shitting me.’

Silence. Adam didn’t have the energy to hold his breath.

Repeated, slower. ‘You’re shitting me.’

‘The fuck do we do now?’

Silence, again. Maybe it wasn’t about him.

It _couldn’t_ be about him.

He wasn’t human. He wasn’t _human_.

Soft, almost indecipherable; ‘Bury it.’ Followed by; ‘Put him in the vault, and never open it.’

‘That’s not the only problem we have.’ Low, alarmed.

Adam missed the rest of the conversation, because the door jingled, and footsteps thudded closer, and someone in a black uniform was prising open the cuffs and dragging him upright.

Watch and Glasses were still whispering through the cage wall, but Watch acknowledged his departure with a grim stare.

The escort didn’t speak. He had to half-carry Adam most of the way, but it didn’t affect his efficiency. There was no evidence of concern about handling a freak, no extra caution. Adam might have been able to punch him in the face, without encountering resistance, if he had any idea where he was or how to get out.

There were corridors, long and colourless. They were in an elevator, briefly. He was hardly getting his feet off the ground, and then there were steel doors, and more soldiers, and an empty room and Adam was shoved before the door was slammed shut.

He hit the far wall, more for balance than anything else, and let himself slide, with reluctant gratitude, to the floor.

The room was tiny. Blank. Three-by-two, if that. Lit by a single weak fluorescent set in the ceiling.

_Welcome to the vault._

The ground was cool against his temple. Adam closed his eyes.

_Human._


	25. Hostile territory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short, I know, but I thought you might want this (also you know why)

Someone came back after he’d slept, stirred from discomfort, slept again. The sound of the door opening woke him, and he instinctively shuffled to sit against the back wall.

He felt smaller, not just because the figure in the door was standing, was taller than him, broader, and dark-edged in a tailored suit. He felt like a child, huddled in the corner, like he was cowering from something he knew he couldn’t fight.

He wasn’t afraid. The exhaustion had numbed his fear… or possibly there wasn’t any left. He was human. What was there to dissect?

It didn’t mean he was free. It didn’t mean they wouldn’t torture him for information about the Widower.

Something landed on the floor in front of him. A paper bag, twisted over, dark in patches with grease. Adam’s automatic response was suspicion (what body part, and whose?) but then the smell of food hit him like a punch to the gut.

Fast food. Calorie-loaded, heartburn-inducing, glorious fast food.

He reached for the bag, tentative, but he was hungry enough to eat anything, poisoned or not.

There was a burger inside, fries, a bottle of water. Adam didn’t know what an appropriate acknowledgement of the offering would be, so he settled for pulling the bag close to his chest gratefully.

‘Eat.’ It was Glasses, in the doorway, with his eyes narrowed. ‘Quickly.’

Adam didn’t need any further encouragement. The burger lasted less than two minutes, the fries were gone in seconds, and he washed the lot down with gulps of water.

He could have eaten five more. He wanted to, desperately. He wanted to feel capable of thoughts other than _hungry_ , _thirsty_ , _painful_ , _tired_.

‘Up.’ Glasses watched Adam straighten, caught his arm as he wobbled forward. There was a soldier, or a guard, outside the room, one who clearly didn’t consider Adam a threat. He was marched rapidly along the corridor in bored silence.

Steel doors marked intervals of four or five metres along each wall, identical apart from the hazmat-yellow numbers sprayed on the metal. Adam had been in number 19, and he couldn’t stop himself morbidly wondering how many others were anonymously and indefinitely imprisoned in the building.

_Jesus_. He was almost disappointed that they hadn’t been able to tell him what he was… if there was anything like him here…

But he was human… so he was just like… anybody.

Only it wasn’t possible, that he was just human. His eyes, teeth, the speed and strength and reflexes. It didn’t make sense. No, it was physically _impossible_ for him to be human.

They encountered more men in uniforms, and their escort broke away. The elevator was waiting. Adam couldn’t tell if it spat them out into the same corridor he’d been brought through the… day before? Night before? Hour before? It wasn’t distinctive enough to identify, and his memories were unhelpfully hazy.

They weren’t alone. There were people passing them, dressed either in smart attire or uniforms, none of them batting an eyelid at Adam being effortlessly propelled towards probable doom. Glasses seemed entirely unconcerned by their presence when he finally stopped beside a bisected metal door, tightened his grip and shoved Adam against the wall.

‘Listen.’ He was speaking through gritted teeth, fingers digging into pre-existing bruises. The aggression was sudden, but not shocking. Adam didn’t struggle. He waited, cautious, and wincing at the ache spreading through his muscles.

‘What we do here is integral to national security, _Parrish_. Our work is more important than you could possibly comprehend. And if you endanger that in any way - _any way_ \- we will hunt you down and make you suffer for every second of the rest of your miserable life.’

Adam felt his stomach twist, anxiety rising to choke him in perfect symmetry with a tiny flash of hope.

‘You’d better fucking remember what we know.’ There was something wet on Adam’s arm, inside the sleeve. He must have been bleeding. ‘There are no papers, no numbers, no people to prove that you exist at all, and if you _ever_ step out of line, I promise you, we will destroy everything you have, and there is nothing, _nothing,_ that will protect you.’

He leaned away, expression resuming impassivity, and knocked loudly on the door.

There was still a glimmer. _Maybe they would let him go_. But the dread of believing it, and having the possibility snatched away, was making it hard to breathe.

The door slid open with a pressurised hiss. Glasses shoved him through.

At first glance, it was a morgue. Every surface was steel, polished to a shine. Metal benches around the walls, metal tables lined up down the centre of the room, dipping to accomodate pooling liquid. Ceiling high fridges, only some with glass windows, and lights on trolleys, and two figures in surgeon aprons and gloves. Adam felt his breathing stutter, adrenaline dragging his fear back in full force.

One of the figures was directly by the door, and Adam only caught a sense of him as he was pushed past. The other was a woman at the far end of the room, turning to observe their movement.

She started forwards, motioning to one of the metal tables. ‘Over here.’

It was a long room, and only as she came closer could Adam pick out details about her. Her hair was silver, tied back into a bun, and her gaze was unimpressed, as though they’d inconveniently interrupted her in the middle of something more important.

When they were within metres of each other Glasses released his arm, and Adam hesitated but didn’t stop. He knew he was being transferred, from the custody of agents to scientists probably, but he didn’t calculate much chance of successfully resisting.

She pointed, again, to the metal bench, casting a critical eye over him as Glasses shrugged off the burden. ‘He’s all yours.’

Adam touched the bench, fingers curling around the edge. It was smooth, clean. He tried to balance with it, ignoring the urge to run, to fight, even to climb.

‘Go on.’ She wanted him to, anyway, and dragging his weight upwards, so he could sit on the metal with his legs dangling, made his arms hurt. Glasses was headed back towards the door, his voice receding to a murmur as he struck up a conversation with the man who’d let them inside.

‘They’re making you work lab shifts again, Wells?’ The answer was indistinct, but Glasses chuckled. ‘You’re too good in the field to stay locked up down here.’

The front of Adam’s outfit bore a cumbersome plastic zipper, which the woman pulled down without warning, peeling apart the halves of the jumpsuit. Adam fidgeted, too cold, possibly too bloodless, to blush. The plastic, once he’d freed his arms, pooled around his waist where he was sitting on the bench, and he’d managed to retain his underwear, offering some shred of dignity at least.

The clothes they’d taken had been Ronan’s. It bothered him, though it was an immeasurable advantage that they hadn’t caught him in his own.

She made a disapproving noise, or several. Frowned at the bandages that had come loose, and the smears of antiseptic staining his skin. Ronan had been thorough, as far as Adam was concerned, but it had been a rough trip since then.

The door made a sound as it closed, and despair threatened to drown him. Trapped again. In a morgue, or an operating room.

It was more like a laboratory, when he took the time to examine it. There were a couple of square hatches on the wall that could have stored cold corpses, but everything else was almost commonplace.

She circled him, inspecting his arms and back, making more noises and the occasional comment. He could see the fresh trail of blood down his forearm, narrow and meagre, originating where they’d stabbed the needle in earlier. The small dot was nestled in a sea of sickly green-brown where his skin had protested the pressure.

He supposed, in reality, he was too fragile for an inhuman. Christ, the Widower could take multiple bullets and heal within a week, despite complications, while Adam could barely withstand a needle. Even the lack of food and water made him feel dizzy and weak.

Her colleague was passing behind the table. Adam heard her say; ‘Look at this.’

There was a polite “Hm?” in reply.

The rest of the conversation was hushed, but Adam still caught the odd _idiot_ and _kid_ and _liability_.

He didn’t know what was so unexpected about his back, or his injuries, to incite her disgust. He wanted this to be over, as soon as possible. He wanted to reach a point of certainty about what they planned to do.

One of them pulled a strip of medical tape off his back, and a bandage with it, and sighed.

‘I’ll sort this.’ The woman said, sternly. ‘Would you tape the arm, and fix up the IV?’

Adam lowered his chin to his chest. They must have discovered their mistake, if they were going to operate. Or maybe they were just going to dig around to be sure.

The swipe of damp fabric against his elbow startled him, and the sudden proximity of…

He looked up, enough to blink, nearly flinch, and force down the reaction. Enough to recognise the face in front of him, and enough to know that the person looking back recognised him too.

Not because there was any response, but precisely because there was no evidence of recognition, no curiosity or doubt, or anything _at all_ on Declan Lynch’s gut-wrenchingly familiar face.


	26. And I swear to the stars

They could have laced the burger with something. Even the water. Adam had been so desperate he hadn’t really registered the taste. 

Why Declan? Someone  _almost_  familiar, but not exactly what Adam would have expected his brain to conjure in a moment of weakness. He resembled Ronan, but it wasn’t a comforting resemblance. It was more like a harsh reminder of how much damage Adam had done, how much he could still do, if he didn’t hold his tongue about the Widower.

Particularly dangerous, with drugs in play. Adam was a liability.

The woman, evidently a doctor, finished applying a few strips of tape to Adam’s injuries and returned to her previous task, assigning Wells the responsibility of administering the IV. He’d already wiped the blood off Adam’s arm, lightly bandaged the split skin, examined the other bruises and cuts to judge their severity. None of it seemed to prompt any strange reactions. He behaved just as the average man would, calmly going about secret medical work with an abducted abnormal entity.

Only Adam wasn’t abnormal, according to the blood test.

He was struggling to calculate how much of this experience could be the product of his own addled mind. Maybe his blood pressure had dropped too low, and he’d passed out. Maybe this was a dream concocted by his subconscious to protect him from what was really happening in the metal cage.

Declan requested his wrist, and Adam offered it silently. He felt the needle sting, and flinched, and heard Declan’s voice apologise; softly, formally.

He didn’t avoid acknowledging Adam. He didn’t seem wary of the consequences of this meeting. 

Why would Declan work for a non-human-hunting organisation? Maybe Wells was just Wells, and Adam’s brain had laid a warped image over him.

But he trusted his mind enough to doubt it. He trusted the ache in his muscles and the throb of his head and the dry itching discomfort of his hands, the barely reduced hunger, the tangled remorse, and dread, and hope. He believed Declan Lynch was really here, under a different name, pursuing some indistinct purpose of his own. He suspected that it was related to the inconceivable results of the blood test, somehow.

Ronan couldn’t know about this.

There was no reason he would have mentioned it to Adam, if he did, but it hardly seem plausible that brilliant, loyal Ronan Lynch would accept his brother fighting for the opposing team. Not a criminal, but a hunter, of sorts. A hunter of the very thing Declan  _was_.

Adam could feel himself swaying, on the table. He couldn’t stay upright, despite balancing on his hands. Whatever had been in the injection was strong. Most of the physical discomfort was going, fading to heavy numbness.

It was harder to stop staring at Declan, but with the advantage of half-falling/half-sliding off the table towards him it seemed only fair. 

Adam could taste metal, on his tongue. Kind of a sharpness to it, like lies. He was glad he couldn’t move his lips properly, glad he couldn’t talk to the man who was holding him upright.

Wells was Declan Lynch. He was sure. Declan had altered the test results, he was sure of that, too. He didn’t know if that meant he’d be imprisoned or released, but… it seemed like he’d be too heavily sedated to notice, now.

The other one was back… With the glasses pushed up into his hair. He spoke, words reaching Adam as though through water. 

He had a bag, with Adam’s clothes in it.  _Ronan’s clothes._  He couldn’t keep his eyes focused long enough to tell if Declan reacted to that. 

Sleeves were pulled up his arms, but it felt odd, like he’d slept on them and lost sensation. He shed the rest of the jumpsuit, with considerable assistance, and his track pants were returned to him.

He tried to identify -  _was this good? -_  but clothes weren’t helpful. He could die in his own clothes just as well as anything else.

His legs were useless. Someone was holding him up. 

Lynch was saying something. Adam tried to remember why he liked that face so much.

The room spun, colours blurring, and he closed his eyes.

 

It was night. 

Someone had opened the door, and Adam could see the darkness. Not really darkness, but an urban facsimile of it. Bright night, with tones of streetlight and flashing neon and car headlights and shopfronts. 

He’d been awake for a while, or… conscious. Thoughts were sluggish. Movement was barely possible.

He was outside, without moving. He knew the place, just knew it, even if he couldn’t think of what it was or what that meant.

He was sitting down, then. Sort of awkwardly, by the angle of his view. 

His body felt dead. Unresponsive. He tried to move an arm, then a hand, then a finger. Scratched the surface beneath his fingernails. Slippery metal. 

The light on his face changed. He could hear vehicles moving past, humming in that muted night-time way when they were looking out for drunks or for a place to park. He heard something bigger rattle up, hissing, voices in the distance, and rattling again. 

He could move his hand enough to touch his eyes, eventually. Rub them, as though that would somehow fix the connection to his brain and make it easier to understand what he was looking at.

He could shift his feet, enough to grasp that they were painfully cold, clumsily searching for purchase on the ground.

A spike of adrenaline finally sliced through the haze. A hand grabbed his arm, and Adam flinched in spite of the pervasive numbness of his muscles. He was slumped sideways, making the street in front of him baffling, but he knew the ugly building in front of him, the rain-soaked posters and the concrete rot. He knew the little awning over the newsagents, and the glittering wet surface of the road. 

This was Wyvern territory. He was home. 

He even knew the face of the woman leaning over him, eyes narrowed with suspicion and anger. 

She said something else… he didn’t understand it. There were other people around, a few strolling, one or two waiting on the bus to go further into the city. None of them were perturbed by his presence. A half-conscious, badly dressed kid with no shoes was run-of-the-mill every night around here. 

He scraped his toes across the pavement again, trying to get enough leverage or functionality to sit upright. 

The woman - Cara - disappeared before he could manage it, and he relinquished a weak noise of disappointment. He was hoping she’d stay.

An instant later she was back.

‘Adam.’ Decipherable only because it was his name. Cara had summoned reinforcements, and Adam could see feel fury in Eve’s searching gaze. 

She pulled him and jabbed him until he was sitting up, and looped his arm around her shoulders. He heard Cara offer to help, and Eve refuse. She’d come from the apartments, in jeans and a hoodie, but even now she was as tall as him, and strong as an ox. 

They were a few blocks away. Walking wasn’t easy, so Eve dragged him most of the way. She tried talking to him, at some point, and then apparently gave up. Getting his jaw to work was even harder than moving his feet. It felt like someone had injected wet cement into his entire body.

The door was open. There were other people waiting. Anna was one of them, tossing off her shoes at the bottom of the stairs and grabbing his other arm. 

He could just about climb the steps, gracelessly lifting and dropping his feet like lead blocks. His shoulders had begun to wake up, registering the discomfort of raised arms and dead weight. He heard the word  _bastards_  pretty clearly, and tried to smile.

They reached Eve’s apartment, and a few minutes later he was slowly sinking into her couch.

‘What happened?’ Anna’s voice. It wasn’t the first time she’d said it, but repeating it seemed to calm her down. Her fingernails sank through Adam’s hair, pushing it back from his face. ‘What did they  _do_?’

Eve’s answer was a hum of noise, volume dropping and then rising, and she reappeared with a bottle of water and a scowl. 

‘How can-’ Anna fluffed his hair, abandoned her sentence with a sigh. ‘Sit up.’

He tried to oblige, but only succeeded with her help.

They gave him the bottle of water, and he gradually regained the ability to swallow after several attempts at nearly drowning. He could feel it sinking through his body, and the threat of backlash. His digestive system, waking up, was unimpressed by deep sedation on top of hunger, and his brain was a foggy minefield. Every now and then, he’d feel a stab of pain, or remember something alarming, and couldn’t prevent a shiver.

‘Adam.’ Hands on his cheeks, holding his head and his focus. Eve’s stern expression. ‘Tell me what you need.’

Food was first. He ate toast, torn to small pieces so he could make himself swallow it. He wasn’t hungry, because he couldn’t feel his stomach.

‘How long has it been?’ Every time he tried to speak Eve winced, and he didn’t blame her. It sounded like his lungs were being crushed and all he could muster was a faded whisper.

‘Four days.’ Eve explained. ‘It’s nearly… Three a.m. now? Tuesday.’

_Well, shit._

He stared at the wall behind the television, vacantly trying to understand where the time had gone. 

Eve told him to take a shower to get warm, and he slowly manoeuvred himself into the bathroom. Stripping off his clothes was complicated, but the room filled with steam as soon as he turned the taps, and it was worth the effort when he lowered his feet into the hot water.

He couldn’t stand, so he knelt on the shower tiles and pressed his forehead against the wall. The water peeled away the medical tape and the bandages immediately, but it sank through his skin and dislodged the cold, plastered his hair to his face and eased the deadness of his limbs.

Whatever drug they’d used had muddled every memory, made everything hazy and uncertain, and he could feel it still pulling at him, trying to drag him back into darkness. But he was out.  _Out_. Relief was crowding out other thoughts. He hadn’t even taken a single scalpel, at least not that he could remember.

He crawled out of the shower, pulled a towel down over himself.

Eve said that they’d come to the building, Saturday morning. Federal badges. They’d only sent female officers, agents, whatever they were, out of respect for the Wyverns. They’d only searched Adam’s apartment, but they’d never mentioned him. She’d tried to find out what happened, where he’d been taken, anything at all, but they’d refused to answer.

He needed to leave. It wasn’t safe for anyone to be near him. They undoubtedly would have bugged the apartment. He didn’t know what they might have planted on him while he was unconscious.

They’d continue watching him, to make sure he didn’t say anything. Probably hoping he’d lead them to the Widower, which he might, if he went back to school.

He’d missed an assignment that was due Monday. Did the school know?

He could ask Eve to call tomorrow, with an excuse, but it wouldn’t matter if they already knew he’d been taken into custody. Technically it hadn’t been an arrest, but he doubted that mattered to Aglionby. The school board had been explicitly uncomfortable about accepting a Gillespie student. Any rumour of trouble and he was finished.

On the off chance they didn’t throw him out, he’d need something official to justify the late assignment. Nothing medical, though, because that would risk revealing his back, and raising eyebrows about his home life.

He’d have to face Ronan and Gansey, going back to school. And hope that neither of them were angry enough to spread word of what had happened. It was unlikely. Gansey was too nice for rumours, and Ronan was… too Ronan.

But if he was angry, Adam was dead. It was as simple as that.

He had a right to be furious. Adam had compromised his house, his family, his life. It was Adam’s fault that Gansey and Matthew had been caught in the police raid, and that Ronan’s parents had witnessed it.

Then there was Declan… maybe. It was a distant, uncertain recollection, and he’d been in a bad state at the time.

He dressed, progress still laboured due to returning sensation in his shoulders and back, and left the bathroom.

Eve’s apartment was similar to his own, though better decorated, so it was impossible to reach the bathroom without passing through the bedroom. The intervening door was closed, for privacy, or probably to allow Even and Anna to discuss him in the living area.

The window was open.

Adam moved, uncoordinated on unsteady legs. The room was cold, the only light spilling through the bathroom doorway and through the window from the street. It curved around the figure standing in front of him.

He didn’t speak. Neither did Ronan.

There was no suit. No mask. His face was shadowed by the hood of his jacket, but Adam could still see his eyes, narrow, bright, unblinking. It wasn’t safe for him to be here, Adam couldn’t even risk acknowledging his presence, but he _was_. Poorly disguised, and barely three feet away, unreadable. How was he here? How did he know?

He didn’t seem angry. Adam watched his lips part, silent, and press together again. Watched his gaze flicker down, to Adam’s bare feet, and up to his wet hair.

It was dripping icicles down his neck and through his collar, but he didn’t want to move, to look away, in case Ronan vanished. He stood and waited, soaked up the mess of emotions Ronan caused him, until he shivered and the moment was over. Ronan was gone, slipping through the window.

It had been three days, for Ronan. He might have assumed Adam had been arrested, and charged with theft. Or imagined that Adam had been released, but didn’t want to talk. Probably he’d guessed they knew Adam wasn’t human, and that he’d been passed on by the police to someone else. Maybe he’d suspected they’d killed him.

Adam stared unseeingly at the window. Maybe Ronan wanted to know what Adam had given them, to win his freedom.

He jumped when someone knocked rapidly on the door. ‘Adam, you done?’

‘Yeah.’ The word caught, and he had to clear his throat to be heard. ‘Yeah.’

Anna pushed the door open. ‘There’s a boy here looking for you.’

Adam looked up, more quickly than his brain could tolerate. _Ronan?_

She added; ‘His car is outrageous.’

_Gansey?!_

Adam stumbled towards her.


End file.
